


Volume 2: Wolves vs. Hearts - I

by Anna (arctic_grey)



Series: The Heart Rate of a Mouse [3]
Category: Bandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-19
Updated: 2010-07-25
Packaged: 2018-10-24 00:58:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 54,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10730874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arctic_grey/pseuds/Anna
Summary: Trigger warnings for entire series:substance abuse (alcohol, pain killers, drugs), childhood abuse, graphic depictions of sex, dubious consent, mentions of underage sex, mention of date rape, mild violence, minor character death.





	1. Room for My Lovers

**Author's Note:**

> **Trigger warnings for entire series:** substance abuse (alcohol, pain killers, drugs), childhood abuse, graphic depictions of sex, dubious consent, mentions of underage sex, mention of date rape, mild violence, minor character death.

The radio is playing, and I almost growl when I recognise the tune, glaring at the radio over the newspaper.

“Here it comes!” her voice calls out from the living room, sounding amused.

“Don’t you think I’m well within my right here?” I ask demandingly. “They’re mixing Beethoven with disco music! I mean, nothing in this song is original but was written by a guy who died centuries ago! And here these bastards are making money out of it! How can they sleep at night?” I glare at the radio that’s perched on the windowsill of the kitchen. I know she’s heard this rant more than once lately.

“I think it’s funky,” she says as she walks into the kitchen, quickly tying her blonde hair in a pony tail. She’s running late, a bag flung over her shoulder. Her eyes locate the piece of toast I made for myself, and she snatches it quickly. I lift a disbelieving eyebrow at her. “Sorry, but I don’t have the time!” she says as she takes big bites before taking my cup of coffee and drinking it down quickly, a bit too quickly as she makes a face and pulls back. “Ow, my tongue!”

“That was my last piece of toast. Thanks for that.”

“I’m hungry!” she laughs, eyes sparkling as she tries to eat my breakfast in record time.

“I suppose I am the executive manager of the Starving Dancers of Manhattan Inc.,” I sigh, going back to my paper, not caring it’s old.

She finishes eating, takes another sip of my coffee, and then says, “Alright, I have to run. I’ll bring you bread next time, I swear.” She steps closer, and I look up from the paper as she leans down, our lips meeting halfway, my hand on her hip. It’s more of a peck, habitual and warm. Her lips are gone in the next second as she stands up straight, stretching her lean limbs. One of her legwarmers is lower than the other. It gives her a slightly wonky appearance that she somehow manages to pull off, wearing black hot pants with a simple white halter top. I can see the green leotard through the fabric of the top. She picks up her orange rabbit fur jacket that was hanging on the back of one of the chairs around the breakfast table, sliding it on and zipping it up. There is no way her clothes are practical for New York in November, not to even mention that it’s raining outside.

Doesn’t seem to slow her down, however. “I’m late, I’m late, I’m late!” she mutters as she half-runs out of the kitchen. “I’ll see you at the restaurant then! Love you!”

“You too,” I call out and turn to the next page, eyes landing on an article about the presidential election, speculating who wins. The election was last week, meaning that the paper is even older than I realised, so why am I even reading it? I don’t even care what changes Carter would bring. Change. How do you measure that? What does it take? A new wardrobe? A new name? Different labels and cover-ups for the same person. And sometimes you try to change, and it’s a conscious effort to, but they won’t let you. They know who you were and cannot accept that you no longer bear resemblance. They tackle you. Drown you. And then you think the person you are is all you ever can be.

I push the paper away from me, hearing the song coming to an end. Thank god. I eye the fridge sceptically, wondering if anything edible’s in it. Probably not.

“And let’s listen to a bit of an older tune from a few years back,” the radio presenter says. “Everyone, of course, remembers Ryan Ross and The Followers, and let me tell you a story of when I went to see them on their last tour back in –”

I’ve already made my way over and turned the radio off. Don’t want to hear that. Don’t need to hear that. The radio presenter is one of them.

I wander back out to the spacious living room, snatching the phone on the side table before flopping onto the couch, placing the device on my lap. “What was...?” I mumble, trying to remember the number as the receiver’s pressed between my shoulder and ear. Rain keeps drumming against the big windows of the living room as I start rolling the numbers in.

I get the number right, pleased with myself as a groggy voice answers, “Yello, this is the love machine.”

“Keep talking dirty to me, Gabe,” I say, having helped myself to a cigarette that’s now snugly between my lips as I keep the receiver between my head and shoulder, fiddling with the lighter.

“You couldn’t afford me, Ross,” he returns, but it’s not his usual good-hearted comeback but an unfocused one. “Oh, man, I don’t remember anything of last night. What did I take? Were you there? No, you- Shit, that was crazy.”

“Devastated I missed it,” I note and roll my shoulders.

Truthfully, there is nothing to be devastated about. There’s a party going on every single night: jazz clubs, rock bars, coffee houses, all over Greenwich Village and SoHo. Starving artists, poets, writers, painters, musicians, some established, some fucking famous, some infamous, some destined to die in obscurity. I’ve got my regular bars and cafés already and I make infrequent appearances when I feel like it. On the nights I go by unnoticed, I feel victorious. Most of the time it can’t be done, and I know I’ve been spotted when I render a busy room quiet, and then someone jumps up to buy me a fucking drink, man, I really just want to buy you a drink. From there, it can go either way. I decline, buy my own drinks, cause disapproval for my anti-socialism while secretly they’re in awe, or I might actually feel like socialising, and then we talk about politics and the world and the nature of existence, drinking up and assessing the impact of the 60s folk revival. Some have the balls to treat me like an equal – a more talented and famous equal. Gabe was one of them. I instantly liked him.

“So listen,” I say, taking a deep drag, “Keltie just stole my breakfast. How about we meet up for a bite to eat before practice? Say... the café across the original Eric’s?”

“I can be there in an hour.”

“Make it forty minutes,” I say, hanging up on him to stop the protest that half-leaves his lips.

I finish the cigarette before heading to the bedroom to put clothes on, then stopping in the music room to choose a guitar to take with me. I stop by the entrance, flicking lights on in a room that is almost the size of my living room. Thirty odd guitars hang from the walls, a piano in the back corner by the window. That’s why I bought this apartment: room for my lovers. I choose one of my older Gibsons, mostly out of nostalgia, and then pack her up. I stop by the mirror next to the front door to check my reflection, snatching a hat from the side table, placing it on the mop of unruly brown hair. Keltie doesn’t like the hat because it was made by a girl I was with before her. The hat used to have plastic flowers attached to the side. I’ve since taken them off.

Light shining from the ceiling lamp catches the thin silver chain around my neck for a second, and I remove my gaze from my reflection as I button up my jacket.

Time to go. Change some more.

* * *

The rain’s gotten worse, now lashing against the windows of the café, creating its own kind of music. I lean over my table and scribble lyrics in the New York Times’ margins, stray thoughts and short notes, anything that could be developed further and put into a song.

“Excuse me,” a male voice comes, and I brace myself as I look at the middle-aged man in a suit now standing by my table. Doesn’t matter he’s too old and clearly a part of the system – there are no more rules to who recognises me. Here it comes. The ‘oh you are Ryan Ross’s, the intrusive questions, the gasp when they then recall that, yes, they heard about that, twenty miles outside Seattle where bones were broken and metal turned into scrap metal. I look at the guy, knowing there’s no escape. “I’m trying to find this place,” he says, handing me a small business card to an accounting firm. The address has been made illegible by a coffee stain. “I know it’s close by, but...”

“Sorry, man. I’m not really local.” I hand the card back. “Ask the waitress.”

He mumbles a thank you, and I try to calm down from my moment of slight panic. I’ve been in New York for some months now. I moved in the summer, but not because of the girl. Keltie thinks it’s because of her, but had she lived in, say, Knoxville, Tennessee, she could have kept on wishing. The California air was just getting too dry for me, turning my throat into a desert. I traded it for the occasional bursts of summer wind from the Atlantic that blew in through the open windows of my SoHo apartment, ruffling my hair, smelling of pollution, cooling a drop of sweat on my upper lip as I clumsily handled my guitar. Being famous here is different from LA where people were likelier to come up to me. Here, New Yorkers have got a sense of pride to themselves. They might just walk past me and hide their ‘holy fuck’ expressions. They’re important too. They are all someones; the world just might not know that yet. In LA, adoration was expressed with more immediacy.

I prefer New York for it. I like the maze-like nature of the scene, the smoky bars on 52nd Street and everyone knowing everyone through someone. The basics are the same: sex, drugs, music and dreams. Especially dreams. Plenty of those around.

I did the right thing when I packed up and got on the plane. Keltie didn’t suggest living together. I was worried she might.

Besides, Jon had moved to New York from Chicago, and Eric called me up, saying that I’d been an elusive fucker with my extended stays in London, and only then did I meet Keltie, and she had the brightest smile that made me stop and stare. It also had to do with men I no longer see: Spencer, Joe, Brent... It had a lot to do with them.

The bell rings as the businessman walks out and a black-haired man enters in dark blue bellbottom jeans and a black leather jacket, instantly spotting me and heading over. “Here I am,” Gabe announces, taking a seat by the round table and shaking his jacket a little, water dropping off it. He looks hungover, but he always does. “Coffee!” he says as he spots my cup and snatches it from me just like Keltie did earlier.

“Hey!” I say, trying to snatch it back, but he waves me off, slurping it in loudly. “Fucker,” I mutter and let my eyes stare across the street and at the shop with _Eric’s Record Shop_ written on the window. I see a man walk into the shop – a guy in his late twenties with brown hair almost to his shoulders. Not Eric. The jacket looks familiar, though. I wonder if Eric ever even goes to this branch of his record store chain anymore. Probably not. Are there even enough of the shops to call it a local chain?

“Gabe, get us coffees and something to eat,” I request, and he nods and heads over to the counter as I light a cigarette. I look back down to the paper and my attempts at lyrics. They seem artificial and juvenile. I cross them out again and again until they’re illegible.

“Un café para vos, y un café para mi,” Gabe says when he comes back, adding, “El revuelto de huevo está en camino.”

“You know that I don’t speak Spanish,” I note. “And you were brought up in New Jersey.”

“But I was born in the humid, sexy and mysterious jungles of South America!” he insists, and I roll my eyes. Sure, he looks like he’s got some Latino in him, his skin darker than mine, black hair, dark brown eyes, but he only speaks Spanish to get laid and I tell him as much. He grins. “Trust me, foreign languages get people going.”

“Doubt it,” I say and then smile. “Though I used to know this guy who never said thank you because he thought knowing it in a dozen different languages was cooler.” I chuckle, just for the sake of conversation. “Anyway,” I push the thought out of my head, “what did you get up to last night?”

He quickly leads my thoughts elsewhere as he begins a blow-by-blow account that gets hazier and hazier the further the night goes on. He ends up with a story of how he almost managed to get Maria Muldaur into bed with him. “I mean, I managed to cop a feel,” he says wistfully. “Should’ve been there, man. You?”

“Just stayed at home. Keltie came by.”

“Couple’s night in. Fuck, I had no idea Ryan Ross could be so boring.”

“Boring? You’ve seen me popping pills and snorting shit as much as the next guy.”

“But you’re a legend. I thought you’d do more.”

I sip my coffee. “You’re three years too late, man.”

Gabe sighs dramatically and pretends to be upset. Our food arrives quickly, and he starts asking me about this guy Jon knows. I don’t have much to tell him as I’m sceptical about our meeting. Not that I don’t trust Jon, but he said that the guy he found works in a bookstore. Definitely not very rock ‘n roll. The radio is playing that Beethoven homicide again.

We step outside to the cold weather, and when I try to hail a taxi, Gabe grabs my arm and pulls my hand down. “Isn’t that Eric?” he asks, peering across the street at a black-haired man entering the record shop. It is Eric, and Gabe is instantly on the move. “Let’s go talk to him. Fucker owes me twenty bucks.”

“Poker?”

“Poker,” he confirms, and I laugh as we wait for the right moment to cross the street.

The original Eric’s Record Store is tiny and crammed, but I prefer it to the bigger ones spread across Manhattan. The windows could do with a wash, but I guess the rain helps with that. It’s a narrow space stuffed with LPs and tapes, walls covered in music posters, and it’s empty except for Gabe and I and the man behind the counter at the back.

“Hola, amigo,” Gabe says, and I try not to roll my eyes as I grip the handle of my guitar case tighter. “Did I just see Eric walk in?”

“Yeah, he’s in,” the man nods, his eyes moving from Gabe to me. He’s got dark brown hair unevenly cut, some slightly falling in front of his eyes that look green, then brown, a mix of the two or maybe grey, a bit of stubble on his chin. He’s tall and lean with broad shoulders, roughly my age or a bit older, and I think he might be the guy I saw walk into the shop earlier. He’s got a kind and friendly face. Handsome.

He doesn’t seem to need a minute to take me in, however. “Fuck,” he swears. “Fuck. _You’re_ Ryan Ross.”

“And I’m Gabe Saporta. Hi.” Gabe waves a little, but the guy’s not interested.

Instead he breaks into a big, excited grin. “Holy shit! Ryan Ross of The Followers! You – My god!” He launches into a ramble of my music, when he saw us play, what he thought of it, every little thing, and then he’s calling out, “Eric! Come out here!”

The bead curtain rattles as Eric steps out of the back, a bunch of papers in his hands. He spots us and smiles. “Ry! Gabe! What’s up, guys?”

I lift a hand habitually as it’s not been that long since I last saw Eric. Gabe instantly starts whining about his twenty bucks, and Eric looks unhappy about it – a stingy Jew, it’s so sad he actually lives up to the stereotype.

The guy keeps beaming at me. “God, Eric’s said a dozen times that he knows you, but we all thought he was kidding and trying to impress us!”

“Yeah, Eric and I go way back. We both used to live in LA.”

“I used to live in California too!” he says, like that should give us common ground, make us friends, help us relate. “God, I’m sorry! The name’s Shane.”

He offers his hand. Eric is now grudgingly pulling a twenty out of his pocket, Gabe holding his palm open and ready, and I quickly shake hands with Eric’s overly enthusiastic employee before pulling my hand back and wiping it on my pants.

“Oh, could you sign something for me?” Shane now asks, rummaging through the papers and LP stacks that are on the counter he’s behind. “Hang on.” He rushes past the counter and me, and I see him heading to the F section. Great.

“Ryan, I’m throwing a party tonight,” Eric now tells me. He’s eyeing Gabe scornfully, but Gabe’s grinning. “You guys should come.”

“What’s the party for?”

“Opening the fifth Eric’s Record Shop. There’ll be musicians and actors and artists...”

“In other words, unknown fuckers and no stars, and this is where Ryan steps in, am I right?” Gabe says. Eric refuses to confirm or deny Gabe’s accusation.

Shane’s back with the first Followers album, _The Followers_ , and my eyes flicker over his shoulder to see _Boneless_ there too. Huh. Didn’t go for the best selling album. Okay, I can respect that.

He seems to read my thoughts as he says, “Oh, I’ve got _Boneless_ signed at home. Got two copies, actually. _Her House_ too, but not this one.”

“You’re paying for that,” Eric says sharply, and I snatch a marker that’s lying on the counter, signing the cover quickly.

On some days, I think I’m doing well, and then I have days like these, when it feels like I’ll never be able to shake it off me. But just they wait. I’ll show them. I can rise from the ashes of a band that ceased to exist over two years ago. I’ve moved on, but the world’s slow on the uptake. My new band’s it, ten times better than The Followers ever was. It’s going to be huge.

“So you’re coming, right?” Eric asks demandingly, and I agree since I have no plans after dinner. Eric tries to get a rematch going with Gabe, and Shane is trying to converse further, but he’s just some Followers fan. I’ve had enough of them.

Eric disappears into the backroom as we leave, and Shane says, “Maybe I’ll see you tonight then! Buy you a beer! Really amazing talking to you, Ryan! Bye!”

I lift an awkward hand to signal our parting of ways. It was beautiful while it lasted.

When we step back out into the rain, Gabe says, “Well, he wanted to get on his knees and suck you off.”

“Shame that you’re in the queue before him.”

“Fuck off.”

We grin at each other and get a taxi.

* * *

Our practice space is a spacious, windowless room below ground in an inconspicuous looking building on 3rd Street. We’re late since we got stuck in traffic, but we were late even at the café – sometimes Gabe and I can talk bullshit for hours effortlessly – and Jon is already there with a short and chubby bespectacled man, who is wearing a knitted vest over a dress shirt and a black cap on his head. “Oh, you’re here!” Jon greets us, motioning us over. “Guys, this is Patrick! Patrick, this is Gabe, the bassist, and well, this is Ryan Ross.”

Patrick and Gabe shake hands before Patrick turns to me. He’s got a good-natured face, and the first thing that comes to my mind from his clothes and his appearance is harmless. He’s utterly harmless, and my scepticism grows. If you want to be in the music business, you have to be willing to break some bones.

“Ryan Ross,” he says, grabbing my hand. “Really pleased to meet you. Wow.”

“Nice to meet you, Patrick,” I say, letting my tone convey that I’m not very impressed. I give Jon a long look before pulling my hand back. Jon narrows his eyes at me like I better keep my snobbiness to myself right now. Jon never lets me get away with bullshit, and that’s why I need him around. Gabe gets me into trouble, and Jon pulls me out of it. It works as far as I’m concerned.

I throw my jacket on the one couch we’ve got in the windowless room, sitting down on it and opening my guitar case. This is essentially a job interview, so that’s how I’ll approach the situation.

I glance at the newcomer. “So. You’re a drummer.”

Patrick nods. “Yeah.”

“But you work in a bookstore.”

“Part-time. I’ve been, um, trying to hit some mic nights and stuff. Get into the scene. Met Jon at the store last week. Both Chicago boys.”

Chicago. Right. What wouldn’t Jon do for one of his home boys?

“Alright. Show me what you’ve got,” I say, leaning into the couch, prepared to be underwhelmed. Patrick rolls up his sleeves as he goes to the drum set in the corner, sitting on the stool and swirling drumsticks between his fingers.

He looks up nervously. “So what happened to your last drummer again?”

“Ryan fired him,” Gabe supplies. “Wasn’t good enough.”

Patrick pales. “Oh.”

Finding a superb drummer is surprisingly difficult. I was spoiled at an early age, being in a band with Spencer, though his skills have probably waned since, wasting his life with whatever shit he’s up to now. I don’t know. Haven’t talked to him in well over a year. Better that way.

Patrick starts playing. Okay, he’s pretty good. Not bad. Alright. I’m listening. He plays a five minute set, just going through different techniques to show us what he’s got, and he seems to get really into it because after he’s done, he says, “I can also play other instruments.” Without any of us asking, he picks up one of Jon’s basses and fiddles around with it for a minute, then snatches a guitar and says, “I once worked out an acoustic version of _Sore Skill_ ,” and starts playing a Followers song, and Jon tenses up a little, but Patrick does it so well that I don’t even mind. Then he says, “Oh, is that a trumpet?” We’ve got a shit load of instruments lying around.

Patrick goes through the piano, has a bit of fun with the violin, and he’s trying to find a stool so that he can have a go at the cello, when I say, “Okay. Welcome to the band, Patrick.”

He stops, looking at me with big eyes. “Fuck. Really?”

Jon grins broadly, clearly pleased. I say, “Yeah. Really.”

“Holy crap.”

I suppose if this was 1971, it’d be a bit like Paul McCartney just having recruited a part-time book salesman to play in Wings with him. No wonder Patrick looks like he’s dreaming. I could make a few calls, get someone to play drums for us easily, but I’m sick of big rock stars, guys who think they’re the shit. Patrick’s fucking talented. It hasn’t gone to his head one bit. He has no idea what he’s getting into. He’s hired.

We drink a few beers, play a few songs, try and get a feel for each other, and before one of us knows it, it’s six hours later. I leave my guitar there as we head out together, and we invite Patrick for dinner with us. He’s a part of the band now.

Cassie and Keltie are already waiting for us at the busy restaurant, seated around a large table reserved for our party, and I kiss Keltie on the mouth, Cassie on the cheek, and she goes stiff but smiles my way anyway. I don’t think that girl is ever going to like me.

When I sit down, Keltie leans over and asks, “ _He’s_ your new drummer?”

I take one look at Patrick sitting between Cassie and Gabe, looking like an overzealous door-to-door Bible salesman, and say, “Yeah.”

Keltie shrugs. The waiter comes over, and I order three bottles of wine to kick off the evening.

I spend most of our dinner drinking up, smoking cigarettes, eating the steak I ordered and talking to Jon on my other side, now properly scheming our album. We’re the driving force behind this show – Gabe and Patrick play what they’re told to play. Patrick seems like the kind of guy who might have some amazing ideas of his own, and I look forward to bouncing ideas off of him, but still: I’m the songwriter, Jon is the second in command. This time I want to make damn sure everyone in the band knows where they stand.

Jon says, “I see us maybe getting into the studio in January.”

“Really? Not any sooner?” I ask, sighing. He’s probably right, though. Jon’s always sensible about these things. Keltie’s got a hand on my thigh under the table, deep in conversation with Cassie about clothes or fashion or some other feminine thing that I don’t get.

The two disappear into the bathroom, women always going together for some reason, and when I announce I’m out of cigarettes, Patrick offers to get me some from the bar next door. “The least I can do, right?” he asks, and he’s still nervous, not used to me yet. In a few weeks’ time, he’ll stop treating me like a god. Better enjoy it while I can.

The three of us watch Patrick snake his way through crowded tables – crowded because it’s a small restaurant full of faux bohemians, not really because it’s the most popular in New York – and Jon says, “He’s fitting in nicely, right?”

Gabe hums thoughtfully. “He looks like a virgin. Do you think he’s a virgin?”

“It’s 1976, Gabriel. No one’s a virgin,” I say with a roll of my eyes. “You guys want more wine?” I start signalling the waiter, and Jon gets up and announces he’s going for a piss. The table next to ours has been empty, but now two men sit down at it. A father and son, by the looks of it. The son looks like he’s in his early twenties, skin like porcelain, big, innocent eyes, blond hair. Gabe’s staring.

The waiter’s made his way over, and I say, “Can we get... two more bottles of this?” I point at one of the empty wine bottles at random. He instantly nods and hurries off.

From sucking tequila shots from the belly buttons of groupies to sipping French red wine in mediocre restaurants with what’s essentially a double date with Keltie and I, Jon and Cassie, plus Gabe and Patrick as a slightly awkward extension. It’s different. It’s a statement. We’re all grownups now. We’ve got life figured out. We know what we want. We’ve got friends and holiday plans.

Right now, Gabe’s got it figured out too, what he wants. He’s still staring at the kid. “Gabe. _Gabe_.”

My friend flinches and looks back to me. “Shit,” he laughs. “Too much wine.” He sneaks a glance at the kid. “I’d fuck that.” He leans over the table conspiratorially. “Wouldn’t you fuck that?”

I take another look at the kid. I like my women blonde – men, not so much. It’s weird how that’s worked out. Dark brown hair. Brown eyes. The best combination on a man.

I shake my head, and Gabe says, “More for me then.”

We both know he’s kidding. Public restaurant, a kid who’s damn good-looking but most likely straight, with our bandmates and girlfriends present? No. Neither of us is going to show any indication that a man has caught our attention or, well, Gabe’s attention.

I had no idea he swung both ways when we met. It’s the kind of thing you shut up about for your own good. It was only when we were at a party and both tried to get the same guy that we realised we had more in common than our Gibson Thunderbirds. Gabe was drunk but kept grinning and mumbling, “Now I’ve got a partner in crime! You dirty little fucker!”

Jon doesn’t know. Keltie doesn’t know. No one knows.

Fuck, that’s the last thing I need.

It’s not like it’s a big deal, though. It’s a secret, but one that I’m at peace with. So I fuck men. There really are worse things happening in the world than that. Besides, I’m taken. I’m not taking off with Gabe during the weekends to disappear into sleazy clubs where no one knows us and where everyone’s after one thing. It’s easy to find – all the people present are men. No, I’ve stopped that. Never liked it. Never frequented either, just... maybe sometimes. When I felt lonely or was so drunk that I didn’t care.

I try my best to deserve what I’ve got. Spoil Keltie because I can, though she objects and says she wants to be independent or some other crazy shit that Jac used to say. What’s happened to the women who only wanted to meet a nice, rich man? Still, Gabe doesn’t let my attempts at monogamy stop him. He tells me stories of the men and women he fucks. Especially the men.

Keltie and Cassie return. I keep my arm resting on the back of Keltie’s chair, my forefinger absently drawing circles on her back as we drink the rest of the wine. Gabe’s telling stories and making the girls laugh. He’s got a way with women. And men. Hell, everyone.

Keltie declines my invitation to Eric’s party, which I suppose I am now forced to go to.

“Aw, you’re going already?” Cassie asks, and Keltie nods, putting her jacket on.

“The Thanksgiving Day Parade is just a week away! We’re practising all day every day!” she says, sounding stressed.

Patrick looks curious, so I say, “She’s a Rockette.”

“Oh! You dance! And stuff!” Patrick says. He’s had too much wine. I light a cigarette. Keltie looks slightly offended – she’s not a dancer, she’s an athlete. She tells me as much all the time.

I escort Keltie outside, get her a taxi and kiss her goodbye in the rain. Her brown eyes sparkle when she smiles at me.

All hope is not lost when you’ve got smiles like that.

* * *

But there are smiles, and then there are _smiles_ , like the one this blonde girl is giving me: danger, excitement, probably a dozen filthy tricks she can do in bed. I’m tipsy enough to feel good, a tunnel of nothing but feeling good, endlessly, effortlessly. I can like myself. I’m under the radar. I doubt Keltie would ever find out.

It’s turning out that Eric’s party is not half bad. Cassie didn’t come with us, neither did Patrick since he’s got a morning shift, but Jon, Gabe and I came. If we thought we’d liven up the party, we found out we didn’t have to. Eric’s hired a small club – cheap git – with bad PA, and the sounds of people talking are louder than the music. It looks like it normally operates as one of those damn discos that persistently keep popping up like mushrooms after rain. That’s not music. That’s not rock. It’s noise. It’s a crime. The kids these days are all heading down the wrong path.

Gabe’s on the dance floor already, clearly not giving a damn that this club should be spat on, and Jon is talking to Eric and some girls that are quite clearly flirting. Cassie doesn’t have to worry; Jon would never stray.

But I know neither will I. This girl isn’t worth the risk. That’s what I always have to ask myself – is it worth it? So far, no. It’s like living on a podium, and all these girls are jumping around it, hands lifted to the sky, and I look down occasionally, smirking at their efforts. I pick and choose. I’m in control. They squirm. Sometimes they don’t give a shit that Keltie’s with me, and they try to hit on me anyway, with looks like I could do better than her. She hates it when that happens. Makes her feel bad. She cried about it once. I can’t help what other people do. It’s beyond my control.

Instead of casting suggestive looks around, I spend my evening talking bullshit. Always a valid option as people want to hear me talk about me. It’s good we’ve got something in common. Crowds appear around me without me having to try.

I retell the story of that one time me, Bob Dylan and Iggy Pop got horribly drunk in Baltimore and started a band, but broke up the following day due to artistic differences. I launch into my favourite part of Bob getting pissed off and storming out of the room and –

There’s a man. On the other side of the room. Talking to a girl. Smiling.

There are all kinds of smiles in this world, but some you memorise. Some you learn by heart.

Words die in my throat. The people around me disappear. The music fades out like someone’s twisting the volume button down.

He’s not gone in the next second. He’s still there. He’s smiling in a way that reaches his eyes – brown, a gorgeous brown, not that I can see it from here, but I remember, I still – nodding energetically, and then he laughs, bright and happy, a drink in his hand.

I can’t breathe. I can’t think.

Someone blocks the view, taking him away from me, and the world kicks back into motion.

“So what did Iggy- Ryan, where are you –”

My steps are rushed, panicked. My hands are sweating, ears pounding with a rush of blood, and I don’t believe that I really saw what I saw. This party. This day. All these people. Me. Him.

And then I’m there, and he hasn’t changed shape, hasn’t transformed into someone who merely looks like him. It’s Brendon. It’s my –

He looks older. His hair is longer. He’s more stunning than any of my bleated and worn out memories of him, the ones I’ve twisted and turned in my head night after night.

I stare at him. “Hey.” My voice comes out breathless. If he doesn’t react, then this is just a mirage, some fucked up combination of false hope and Umbrian red wine, make ‘74.

But he does react. He turns his head, sees me and stops. Shock flashes on his features, and he actually takes a step back as if he’s been hit by surprise, the smile vanishing, mouth remaining parted, eyes widening.

The lights of the club change for a second, shadowing his face. I remember that, the way we stood in the dark hallway in the apartment of a Castro freak. He was in the shadows. I couldn’t see his face. He told me to leave. My lip was bruised. Not by him. I left and ached all over.

He looks completely thrown off as he takes me in. He can’t believe his eyes either.

“Oh my god!” the girl says, and I look at her, a busty brunette. “You’re Ryan Ross!”

I don’t let her distract me but focus on Brendon. He seems panicked, like he now realises he has to say something. He says, “Hey.”

His voice. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, _fuck_. His voice. His eyes.

The girl looks between us and asks Brendon, “You know him?”

Brendon drops his gaze from my face. It feels like rejection. It’s hard to swallow, a painful knot inside my guts. An urgency. My heart’s beating fast, like it’s going to pass out from the shock, the excitement, the disbelief.

Brendon looks at the girl. “I was a roadie for The Followers one summer.”

She laughs. “You’re shitting me! You toured with _The Followers_?”

Her tone is sceptical, like now she’s being tricked, but I say, “He did.”

Brendon flinches. He looks at me again. I’m buzzing. Everything. Blood. Adrenalin. Memories. Him.

It’s not rejection because he’s now looking at me, engrossed. He’s taking in my face. I’ve got an insanely strong urge to run my fingers through his hair. The brown strands are longer now. It looks so good on him.

The girl looks between us, and no one says anything. Brendon holds my gaze, but he’s nervous. “Well...” the girl says. She sounds uncomfortable. She motions behind herself randomly. “I think I’ll just go and...”

And then she’s gone.

I step closer to Brendon, occupying the void she left. Someone walks by me, pushing me forwards, and we both step closer to each other in the crowded room. I could reach out to touch him – sparks, warmth, magic –

“What are you doing here?” I ask. Pick one out of millions.

“The party?” he asks. He looks pale and put off. He didn’t know I’d be here. “Was invited.”

“New York,” I correct. This party. My life.

“I live here.”

He lives here. “Me too.”

“When did you move?”

“Three months ago.”

“Oh.”

“You?”

“A year now.”

“Oh.”

We both stop to breathe.

A year. He’s lived here for an entire year. God, where have I been for most of that? Wasting my time. I always thought that he was still in San Francisco. He wasn’t. Hasn’t been. I knew he could be anywhere, but I wanted to pretend that I knew. Keep him tangible. I could stroll down Castro Street, ask someone for Brendon, and find him. I always knew it was bullshit, borderline pathetic. I knew I wouldn’t be able to find him anymore. He was gone for good.

But now we’ve been living in the same city for months. _Months._ Fuck, I could have passed him on the street, walked into the same bar... I could have lived here for twenty years and still never have known. But that didn’t happen. I met him tonight. It’s destiny. Fate. That’s what it is. That our paths are crossing, colliding. That we were meant to meet again.

I ask, “Where are you staying?”

“Brooklyn,” he says, but not dismissively like I would because, fucking hell, all the way there? “You?”

“SoHo.” He looks slightly surprised. “The Village is so 1972. SoHo’s on the rise, trust me,” I smirk. Try to be charming. Right now, trying to be charming would be a damn good plan. My SoHo apartment was damn cheap and a good investment. I had to have it completely renovated, but it was worth it. I told myself that if I made an effort and built myself a home, I’d really have one. It’s been another failed attempt.

The initial shock seems to have faded. He’s talking to me. He might be angry. I don’t know. He might not give a shit. I’ve only pictured this a thousand million times. Now I let myself smile and chuckle, indicating ‘oh wow, it’s a small world’. He’s not relaxed. He’s on edge. What did I really expect?

“God, it’s been a while, huh? Man.” I shake my head in disbelief. “So how you been?”

“Good. Really good.” He’s nodding like he’s busy agreeing with himself. “Just great.”

“That’s good,” I force myself to say. Fantastic.

But he looks great. Smart clothes, good hair cut, in an exclusive NY party? He’s clearly doing alright.

He always was a survivor. Even survived me.

His expression changes right then to something that has a hint of sadness in it. I brace myself.

“I read about the crash in the papers.” Oh. That. I look down to his shoes. “Later Will told me about it, but... I’m sorry about the band. You guys made great music.”

It sounds rehearsed. In his one thousand million versions, he’s always told himself to say he’s sorry. Why? It’s not his fault. He was there; he saw the state of the band. Why be sorry? The car crash just gave us the much needed excuse to announce our tragic death. Spencer chose picket fence America in Cincinnati, telling me to stay out of his life, and when Joe got out of the wheelchair, he came to my apartment, smashed my Fender and called me a cunt. He’s going solo now. Brent... Fuck, I have no idea what the hell Brent even does these days.

“Yeah, how is William?” I ask, looking back into his eyes that are alive, unsure but alive. Fuck, he’s breathtaking.

“He’s good. Lives in San Francisco with his boyfriend.” I feel an involuntary smile tug at my lips, and he frowns. “What?”

I break into a grin. “I _knew_ he was gay. I fucking knew it.”

Somewhere out there in the world, Brent Wilson now owes me fifty bucks. Brendon shrugs, and the conversation seems to die, like he doesn’t want to talk about his friend’s sexuality or the denial there of, like he’s said what he always meant to say – give his condolences – and he never really pictured what would happen after that. But I have.

He’s talking to me.

I scratch the side of my head and look around casually. My heart beats fast. Fuck. This is it. That moment. Brendon’s here. With me. This is it.

“Hey, you wanna get out of here? Catch up over a few beers.”

Speak fast. Convince him. Confuse him. Don’t let him think. Get him out of here. Get him to come with me. Don’t let him replay it in his head, all that happened, what he said, what I said, what he did, what I didn’t do, because if I let him think about it, I’ve lost.

Speak faster. Convince him.

It flashes before my eyes: slamming him against the wall, the starving kisses, the way we desperately pull each other’s clothes off, the way he groans, “ _Ryan._ ” And I’ll explore every inch of his skin, kiss and lick and suck, before even thinking about pushing inside him. I’ll leave him wrecked. Leave us both wrecked. Take all night.

I add, “I know a bar just around the corner.”

That’s currently closed. That’ll be a shame. Better to just go back to my place for a few drinks.

He seems slightly taken aback, but his _eyes_ , god. They darken slightly, the way they used to that summer. My pulse picks up, my palms begin to sweat. The rush I used to feel at the sight of him has changed. It’s even worse now.

He clears his throat. “Look, I –”

He shuts up the instant that guy from the record store walks over, smiling his blissful puppy smile, looking at us both. Brendon’s tensed up. The spell’s been broken. I want to tell the guy to fuck off.

“Shit!” the guy – Shawn? Sherman? – laughs, smiling at us. “You guys already met! Aw, man, I wanted to do this big reunion thing!”

Brendon smiles and keeps his eyes on his beer bottle, taking a long, long sip, like he really needs alcohol right now. Why isn’t he looking at me anymore?

“You two know each other?” I ask while Brendon asks, “You know Ryan?”

“He came to the store earlier today! Eric invited him to the party. And yeah, we’re roommates,” Sherman now informs me, still smiling brightly. “See, I always told Brendon you’d remember him! He said that the band hardly mingled with the roadies, that you two barely knew each other, but Brendon makes an impression, right?”

Brendon shoots me an alarmed look. Oh. I see.

Two years on, and I’m his dirty little secret.

I know I should be pleased that Brendon’s not telling everyone he knows that he had a fling with Ryan Ross, damaging my reputation by spreading rumours that I like cock. I should be pleased, but I always knew he’d keep it to himself, anyway. I trusted him.

But there’s a difference between omitting our affair and claiming that we hardly ever spoke.

“Bren makes an impression,” I nod agreeingly. Sherman offers to go get me a beer, and Brendon starts saying that’s really unnecessary, Ryan can probably afford his own beers, but I tell Sherman that really I’d love one. Anything to make him fuck off.

“You want one?” Sherman asks, hand on Brendon’s shoulder.

“No, I’m good.”

Sherman disappears into the crowd.

“Your friend’s very... enthusiastic,” I note.

“Shane’s a big Followers fan,” he shrugs, smiling like he thinks it’s almost too ironic. The joke is lost on me.

I try to get back into it, pick up where we left off – me and him getting out of here, that bar, my bed, his skin – but Eric’s arrived with a few guys, and then Shane’s back with beers, and there’s a crowd around me again, and Brendon remains silent, looking uncomfortable standing there, and I’m on edge, not knowing how to make these people leave us alone.

I blink, and he’s vanished, slipped away masterfully. I try to relocate him, almost frantically, throat tightening because how can he be _gone_ again, already? But then I see him on the other side of the room where the coatroom is, and he’s putting his jacket on. Shane’s there, they’re talking, and Brendon shakes his head dismissively and motions back to the room. Shane looks hesitant, like wondering if he should go too, but Brendon seems to convince him to stay.

Brendon’s eyes sweep back towards us, but I don’t think he can see me from the masses. It aches and burns and is suffocating, and he’s clearly intending to leave when we just met for the first time. This is the only first time that will count.

But the club lights flash on his face, and then he’s gone.


	2. Room for My Lovers

Jon tells me I’ve lost my focus. He’s probably right.

Greta remains seated by the baby grand piano in the music room, playing _I Only Have Eyes for You_ to keep herself entertained. Jon and I lean back into the corner couch we’ve taken over, feet on the round coffee table. Jon looks unhappy, but at least we’ve got one song figured out, Greta’s backup vocals finally in place. We could have done it in an hour, but it took us four.

Greta isn’t bothered, singing, “You are here, so am I, maybe millions of people go by –”

“She can play piano so much better than you can,” Jon notes. Well, of course she can – I’m a crappy pianist.

“– and I only have eyes for you.”

Greta’s lost in her own world, swaying to the music. It has a soothing effect on Jon, the tension seemingly draining out of him. Doesn’t soothe me at all. My mind wanders, going in circles and creating infinite loops, the way it has been all week. It doesn’t matter what I do – write music, get some sleep, drink with Gabe, have sex with Keltie, liven up a drug-hazed party in one of the bars on my block – it’s constantly there. That feeling. Like someone’s taken a blunt sword and stabbed it into my guts and now expects me to carry on like nothing’s happened.

Greta finishes the song, and we clap accordingly. She turns around in the stool, the long locks of hair moving with her sudden movements. “I love your piano,” she tells me with a big smile.

“And it loves you,” I say, or rather my shell says automatically.

I shouldn’t have let him slip away. I should have made him stay. It’s like I’ve finally placed him on a map, and now I am terrified he is going to vanish again. Maybe he went home and started packing. That’s what he plans to do with his life – hide from me. Drive me insane.

“Do you think I should wear gold or green tonight?” Greta now asks, like Jon and I would somehow know. Greta does that all the time – assume we’re her girl friends. We’re really not. “It’s our third anniversary,” she explains with a dream-like look. “We met around eleven o’clock, and our first kiss was at one...”

Jon looks astonished. “How can you remember something like that? I have _no_ idea when Cassie and I first kissed.”

“Because you two were drunk and too young,” I supply.

Jon casts me a side-glance. “Yeah, we were kinda drunk. And young.”

I’m not sure how old Jon must have been when that happened. Fifteen, maybe? They’ve been together forever. More than a decade. A _decade_ , and they still aren’t bored of each other, are still in love. I wouldn’t believe it if I hadn’t seen it myself.

“When you meet your soul mate, you remember,” Greta says simply, and Jon looks insulted, but Greta always says things that she doesn’t realise offend others. Jon knows she doesn’t mean it. Greta’s now staring into space, eyes unfocused like she sees things the rest of us can’t. “Planets align... the universe pauses... your lips hover over his, and you can almost taste him already. You almost know how soft those lips are going to be... full. Perfect.”

I feel myself slipping into her daydream. A voice rings in my head, an alarmed ‘What are you doing?’ and then my own voice, trying to be cocky: ‘Pitying you.’ Right there next to the tour bus. The urgency of our lips, the barely controlled want, the –

“See, he remembers,” Greta says, smirking. I snap out of it. They’re both staring at me. I feel like I’ve been caught red-handed.

“I don’t remember my first kiss with Keltie. I was thinking about something else.” My tone is defensive for no reason.

“I’ll go with gold,” Greta then concludes, probably having realised that we’re no help with this. “Now I only need to buy Butcher a record. Should I go for Frank or Otis? What’s more romantic?”

She turns back around and starts playing Sinatra, and I go get us all some beers from the kitchen, the music echoing all around my apartment. I open a beer and lean against the kitchen counter, gulping it down thirstily. My skin feels itchy.

I should have asked him where in Brooklyn he lives, what he does. His phone number. But no, I stood there, engulfed by the crowd, letting them swallow me down as he did the smart thing and took off.

And Jon asks me why I can’t seem to concentrate.

My fingers tap against the counter, creating a nonsense rhythm, irregular and frantic. It doesn’t matter that it’s a city of millions when it feels like the only existence worth acknowledging is his.

I open a second beer, and I’m halfway through it when Jon walks into the kitchen, eyebrow quirked. “So it’s self-service around here, then?”

“Shit. Sorry.”

Jon grabs the one beer left on the counter, originally meant for Greta, who seems to be having a go at the mandolin right now. Her voice competes with the soft melodies. Jon pulls one of the chairs from the round kitchen table, taking a seat and keeping his calm, brown eyes on me. His hair is almost down to his shoulders, stubble decorating his chin. For a second, I feel like he knows, but then I realise that Jon is clueless. I haven’t known him for that long, after all. I flew to Chicago for a beer when I got the news about his band having split, and we ended up writing fourteen songs in nine days. Most of the songs that we’ve written we’ve scrapped as not being good enough, but now we finally have twenty or so songs we think have potential to be magnificent.

But Jon still can’t read me like Gabe does, and I’ve only known Gabe half the time I’ve known Jon. I hope it’s got nothing to do with our shared tendency to practise sodomy, that if Jon fucked both sexes, then he’d read me as easily as Gabe. But Jon knows why I’m here. For the music. And if the music’s not working, then something is up.

“What’s on your mind?” he asks.

“No one. I mean nothing.”

Brendon didn’t seem mad. That’s important. I was in there, I was in the game, and then that annoying –

“Shit,” I blurt out.

Jon looks baffled. “Shit’s on your mind?”

That guy. Brendon’s roommate.

“No, I –”

I’m an idiot, having spent a week wondering how to find him again, if I need to wander around Brooklyn in hopes of just running into him magically. God, I’m an idiot. I forgot about that guy.

“I need to get going,” Greta informs us from the doorway, buttoning her long winter jacket. “I need to go buy Butcher his present.”

I ask, “Which record shop you heading to?”

“One of Eric’s, of course.”

Eric’s. I finish the rest of the beer in one go.

Ten minutes later, Greta and I wave Jon off, and he looks after us like he really can’t figure out what on earth is happening. We get a taxi in the corner, and Greta spends the ride talking to the driver about the negative energy his honking creates and how he should maybe whistle instead to create positive vibes. It doesn’t seem to sink in with the guy, but Greta isn’t dispirited, and her smile is so contagious that the guy lets her get away with it.

I pay for the cab, seeing as I’m not a starving artist like Greta, and she links arms with me as we walk towards the record store. I said that we should go to the original, even though there’s one newer store that’s closer to my place.

“It’s so nice of you to help me choose,” she beams.

I remain neutral. “Anytime.”

The bell above the door rings. The stuffy record store is surprisingly crowded for a late Wednesday afternoon, kids pouring over LPs, flipping one after the other. _Technical Ecstasy_ is blaring in the background, a kid nodding his head to the beat as an aggressive guitar solo erupts. Greta and I make our way towards the counter. I hang my head in an attempt to hide. I shouldn’t walk into a place as potentially dangerous as this on my own; I should call Vicky and have her take care of security measures, or at least ask Gabe to tag along. You write some music and spend the rest of your life apologising for it.

I don’t recognise the guy behind the counter, just some kid that I know I could see a dozen times but never remember the look of, but he recognises me instantly. I told Joe it was a stupid idea to have our faces plastered on the back cover of _Her House_ , but no, wouldn’t listen. And then the fame happened, and then our faces were everywhere, anyway, so it didn’t matter anymore. I still blame Joe for it. It’s easier to have a focal point.

“Hey,” I tell the guy before he can speak. Sometimes, it’s better to take control of the situation before it escalates and he blurts out who I am to the entire shop. “You got any Otis in here?”

The guy blinks, pale and shocked. “In the R section.”

“I’ll go have a look!” Greta says and marches off to check the R’s.

“A-Anything else I can do for you?” the kid asks nervously, blinking too much.

“Yeah, actually,” I say, lowering my voice and making sure Greta is out of earshot. She thinks I’m here for her, after all. “I’m looking for a guy that works here. Kind of tall, broad shoulders, brown hair down to here?” I say, motioning. The guy shakes his head with a frown. “He looks like a puppy when he gets excited.”

“Oh! Shane!”

“Yeah, that’s the guy. He’s not working today then?”

“No, afraid not. He used to be full-time, but he’s only part-time now. Sorry. He dropped by earlier, though, to leave these.” He motions at a pile of flyers on the counter with a trembling hand. “You want to leave him a message or...?” His tone is breathy like he can’t believe he’s talking to me, but it’s also sceptical like he can’t believe I’m asking after Shane.

I’ve picked up one of the flyers: an exhibition. Shane Valdes. A gallery I’ve never heard of somewhere in the Lower East Side. Opening tomorrow.

“He’s a painter?” I ask incredulously.

“Photographer. Takes pictures. And stuff.”

He sounds awed. I wonder if he has Shane’s address or phone number. He probably shouldn’t give me that information even if he had them, but he just might to avoid saying no to me.

Greta comes back before I can ask, holding _King & Queen_ in one hand, _Songs for Young Lovers_ in the other. She looks torn, and I say, “Get Butch both.” When she seems to hesitate, I snatch them from her. “I’ll pay.”

“No, you really –”

“End of conversation.”

She looks guilty but then flashes a grateful smile at me. She doesn’t admit that she might not have money for both. I found her in a smoky jazz bar one night, singing to a half-empty room, and most of those present weren’t listening to her at all. But I saw her, and I listened to her, and I was captivated by her. The only people clapping in between songs were Butcher, a drunken girl and me.

She might not have the money for both albums now, but I’ll make a star out of her. When we get the new album out and go on our first tour, she’s coming to support us, opening every show with her angelic voice. She says the only good thing that has happened to her in New York has been that time Paul Simon fucked her, because the next day when she was coming down from the acid trip, panties lost in the rough and tumble of the night, one shoe missing, she decided to just go sit down in Central Park and calm herself down. Butcher was drawing caricatures by the Reservoir. He drew one of her and walked over to give it to her. They went back to his place, she showered, and they spent the next two days making love. She never left.

A few months ago, Butcher’s friend of a friend hooked Greta up to play at the Blue Note. I walked in, searching for liquor and solace. I heard her voice, saintly and pure.

It’s all connected. That’s what she says, anyway.

Two years, and she’ll be swimming in money. As for now, I’ve got her covered.

“Thank you,” she says when we walk back outside. “Butcher’s going to love these!”

“Don’t mention it,” I tell her, and she gives me a big hug as a goodbye. For no rational reason, I look around after we pull back, like somehow Keltie’s standing somewhere near-by. I know she’d get pissed about Greta hugging me. We have a musical connection that Keltie can’t compete with.

A stupid thing, being jealous of Greta. Her heart’s completely taken, and if anything, I think I’ve started viewing her as my non-blood related, lost in her world sister. She waves me goodbye, two records snugly under one arm, and I stuff my hands in my pockets as I slowly start heading back home.

In my pocket, my thumb and index finger trace the folded flyer for an exhibition of some random guy who happens to know another guy who in turn is not random in any way.

It’s stupid being jealous of Greta.

* * *

“The Fall of Brooklyn,” Gabe says, sounding sceptical. “Isn’t Brooklyn depressing enough without this guy dedicating an entire exhibition to it?”

“Maybe. Just found the flyer in the coffee shop this morning, thought what the hell,” I shrug, eyes flying over shop fronts, trying to find the gallery. It was either this or a Rockette performance, and I saw one two months back, anyway. Fine, it’s a new routine now, but I’ve seen Keltie doing half of it in my living room, pushing the couches out of her way and making the entire world her stage. She has shows all the time, and she knows I’m busy. “I think that’s it,” I finally say, pointing across the street.

The gallery turns out to be a spacious room with high ceilings and white walls, framed photographs all around and a buffet table at the back. A dozen people are examining the art on display. Gabe stops in the doorway next to me. “Ryan. Dude. Let’s just go get pissed at that bar we passed.”

I card my hair quickly, hoping it’s not too much of a mess. “No, let’s check this out. I’ll buy you a drink later, I swear.”

Gabe sighs dramatically, but I don’t actually need to bribe him. We do most things together, anyway. People are calling Gabe my sidekick. He doesn’t mind. On the contrary, he takes pride in the fact that I’ve become dependent on his company. I can count on him to keep my secrets, to drink up, get fucked up, to have my back if shit gets rough. I can’t trust many people anymore. Gabe has become irreplaceable in a matter of months, but it feels natural. If Gabe wasn’t accompanying me to an art exhibition, he’d be accompanying me to some other event.

We leave our coats on the stand by the door. Gabe heads straight for the buffet table where wine glasses stand in a row. A guy, who is clearly a critic, is by one of the pictures with a small notepad, glasses low on his nose. He is mumbling to himself, staring at the frame in deep concentration and clearly feeling important. Then I see Shane on the other side of the room. He’s eyeing the critic, looking pale and nervous and approximately forty-seven seconds from vomiting.

Then he sees me, and his nauseous expression mixes with an astounded one. “Ryan! Hey!” he says, waving, and I try my best to look surprised as I walk over.

“I know you,” I say vaguely.

“Yeah! Shane! I work for Eric! Remember?”

“Ah! Right! I remember now! What you doing here?” I ask with innocent curiosity, and he starts explaining how it’s his exhibition, stumbling on his words from excitement, trying to find out how on earth I’m here. I say that it’s pure coincidence, happened to walk by, always liked photography, nice black and white shots, and _oh_ , the title is a pun – most of the pictures are of falling leaves, rotten leaves, puddles filled with leaves – a fall, ha ha, how witty, of course I’d like a glass of wine, thank you, that’s thoughtful, oh hey, is Brendon here?

“He’s supposed to be, yeah,” Shane says, looking upset.

He hurries to get me a drink, and Gabe returns, looking after Shane. “I know him. He’s that guy from Eric’s, the one with heart eyes for you. What’s he doing here?”

“He’s the photographer,” I supply, and Gabe freezes. I busy myself avoiding his eyes. The critic’s spotted us and is now looking at me instead of the art, scribbling more furiously into his notepad.

When Shane comes back with a drink, someone calls him over to presumably discuss his art, and he looks devastated to leave me but reluctantly does, telling me to enjoy the show and that he’ll be back shortly. “Just don’t go anywhere,” he adds nervously.

Gabe takes my wine glass from me and finishes it. He wipes his mouth to the back of his hand and says, “Why are we _actually_ at the exhibition of your latest fan boy?”

I try shrugging in a c’est la vie, crazier shit has happened way, but Gabe isn’t buying it. I make sure no one is within earshot when I lower my voice and say, “Okay, so Shane kind of knows a guy that I... want to see. I figured he might be here.”

I try to be vague and not insinuate too much with it, but Gabe instantly looks intrigued. He probably sees it as a big game. “So you’re _chasing_ a guy,” he says, sounding surprised.

Fuck it. Maybe I am.

“He and I –”

“No, no, don’t spoil it!” he stops me, and I’m relieved I don’t have to try and explain what the deal there is. Even I don’t know. There are only two options: seeing Brendon again or never seeing him again. I can’t choose the latter. “Look at you scheming,” Gabe grins. “Clever little thing.”

I’m not scheming. Going out of my way to be here and coming up with transparent fabrications do not count as scheming. That makes it sound like I’ve got a choice. I don’t.

“I need a drink,” I conclude. We start peering at the pictures, seeing as that’s the point. I look to the door whenever I hear it open, hoping that my cover is convincing enough for Brendon. I know what he’s like, or what he used to be like, anyway. To this day, he is still the only person I’ve met who’d choose not to have me. It might happen again. And if he tries to run for it, I’ll be the first to remind him that there was a time when I didn’t have to chase him, when I had him good and proper. When he was asking me to choose him.

I’ve been thinking about it ever since. He claimed that I was confused and didn’t know what I wanted. Fuck him. Fuck that. He should look in the mirror – what the hell did he want? Pushing me away one minute, asking me to stay the next. _I_ was confused? He should talk.

Brendon needs to think that it’s coincidence. He needs to fall into my trap without realising it. Then, when he awakens and realises the mess he’s gotten himself into, namely me, it’ll be too late.

As for now, I have to wait.

The pictures are good, but dull. Shane’s clearly talented, but how many drooping leaves do I need to see against ugly Brooklyn facades?

One catches my attention. It’s one of the rare ones with a person in it – bits of a person, anyway, half a face that the frame cuts off, a face that’s looking down, hair messily everywhere and over the eyes, lips twisting upwards shyly. Beyond Brendon’s shoulder is an out-of-focus street. It’s a black and white shot. It’s also the best picture of Brendon ever taken. There’s something so familiar in it, something tangible, and I feel like I could step into the picture, lift his chin with one finger, make his eyes meet mine, lean in and –

“Is that the same guy?” Gabe asks, motioning between the photograph and the doorway.

My eyes instantly fly between the two, as if to compare, before taking a step backwards to hide behind Gabe. “Looks like it,” I say with as much composure as I can. Brendon doesn’t even know how easy he’s making finding him.

The dreamlike feeling of seeing him hasn’t gone anywhere. I was pretty drunk the last time, and I was in shock, but now I’m sober and nervous as hell. It’s not a scared kind of nervous but an excited one. Brendon’s stepped inside, and he’s looking around the gallery quickly, getting his jacket off with swift movements.

“Let’s play the Who You’d Fuck game,” Gabe then says, relying on his ultimate source of entertainment when he’s desperately bored. He nods towards Brendon. “Him.”

“Can’t have him.”

“Well, I know that,” Gabe says with a roll of his eyes. “Men don’t tend to swing that way, that’s why it’s called a game. Jesus, don’t rain on my parade.”

Shane’s now going over to Brendon, and I have a few seconds left before artist of the week there blurts out that Ryan Ross is present. Brendon looks stressed out, an apologetic look on his face, and I hurry my words as I say, “He’s a fag.” I finish my drink in one go.

“He is?”

“Yeah. And also mine.”

Realisation dawns on Gabe’s face. He gives Brendon a quick check, and Brendon’s talking to Shane, who seems jumpy and nervous, and then Gabe turns back to me and glares. “Screw you, Mr. Rockstar. Always have to take the best ones.”

“One of the many afflictions that come with my hazardous lifestyle,” I say mournfully before walking on to the next photograph, trying to look like I’m transfixed in the art. I don’t need to look over to know Brendon’s been informed of my presence when I can practically feel his eyes on me. Gabe follows my lead, pretending fascination in a picture of a puddle, and I ask, “What’s he doing?”

Gabe takes a casual look around the gallery before looking at the photograph again. “Talking to your wannabe groupie and trying hard not to look our way. He looks kind of tense.”

Good, that –

“Oh, they’re coming over.”

I flinch despite myself and then put on a cordial smile when they reach us. Shane’s leading, and Brendon looks uncomfortable. I try to look surprised and say, “Oh. Hey, there.” Brendon’s face isn’t tainted by disco lights this time – his face is manlier than it was two years ago. Older. More mature. There’s not as much sparkle in his eyes as I remember there having been, but I’m not sure if that’s age or my presence.

“He decided to show up after all,” Shane laughs, nodding at Brendon.

“Nightmare getting here,” Brendon says simply, a reserved look on his face. He didn’t seem mad last week, but he definitely isn’t dying from excitement either.

Gabe is staring at Brendon curiously, like he’s trying to figure out what it is about him that has me coming to some shitty gallery in the Lower East Side in hopes of arranging a chance meeting.

“Oh, this is Gabe, our bassist,” I quickly say because Gabe is staring in a rather unsubtle way. “Gabe, this is Brendon.”

“Encantado,” Gabe says, offering his hand. Brendon shakes it quickly, and Gabe grins broadly.

“A step up from Brent,” Brendon notes coolly, and I hold back a scoff. Brent spent the summer treating Brendon like a servant there for his convenience, Brendon’s sexuality only adding to his pre-existing inferiority. Don’t think Brent ever said one nice thing to Brendon. And then when Joe told the entire band that we... Well. Brent lost the little bits of courtesy he still had.

Shane, however, looks unnerved, like he’s petrified Brendon had the guts to criticise my former bandmate to my face. “I’m sure Brendon didn’t mean that, he –”

“That’s okay,” I say easily, shrugging. “Between you and me?” I ask, glancing around conspiratorially and lowering my voice, “Brent’s a cunt.”

Gabe lets out a burst of laughter, grinning, and Shane looks confused but laughs forcedly, anyway. Brendon smiles down at his shoes. I’m making him smile. One defence at a time.

“So you’ve got a new band then?” Shane asks excitedly, but still with an edge to his words. Oh, right. He’s a fan. He lives in the illusion that bands are divine matches, living together in perfect harmony. I might just have fractured his heart. He explains, “I read your interview in The Rolling Stone in the summer. It said you were writing music, but it didn’t mention a band. I thought you’d push out a solo album.”

“I thought about it,” I admit. It seemed like a safer option – I don’t get along with people when it comes to music. But then I heard about Canadian History splitting up, and I remembered Jon, and I could still even remember the few songs we wrote. They were still as good. Tried calling him, but someone else picked up and said Jon no longer lived there. They had Jon’s new address, though, so I flew up to Chicago. We settled on starting a band roughly a day later. Cassie didn’t look too happy. She clearly had hoped that Jon was done with music.

“What are you called?” Shane asks, and I shrug. I have no idea. Instead I look at Gabe.

“Eh,” Gabe says, “we’re still debating about it. I mean, you’ve got Ryan, then Jon, Patrick and I kind of form the band. We’re gonna be called Ryan Ross and something. Patrick liked The Whiskeys.”

“Really?” I ask because they haven’t kept me up to date. Ryan Ross and The Whiskeys. Sums up my life rather eloquently. “Oh, I get it. Johnny Walker. Right. He’s the only whiskey, though.”

“Patrick and I drink enough to compensate,” Gabe grins broadly, but Brendon is now looking at me like he can’t believe what he’s hearing.

“Jon Walker’s in your band? Canadian History Jon Walker?”

“Yeah. Plays guitar. And then Patrick’s the drummer.”

“Technically,” Gabe adds in. “You should see this guy – he plays any instrument known to man. Doesn’t look like much but give him a violin or a banjo, and he just goes off like –”

“Wait. Patrick as in... Patrick Stump?” Brendon asks, and now is my turn to look surprised. Shane looks like he’s equally unaware and confused, and Brendon says, “I know him. From around, I mean. Music stuff. He’s in a _band_ with you?”

“For eight full days now,” Gabe says. “Great guy.”

“But- Last month, he was stuck doing mic nights!” Brendon objects, like Patrick has risen above his station, which is exactly what he has done. It’s not like Patrick has never been in bands – he says he’s been in at least a dozen. Those bands have just never gotten anywhere, and now he’s gotten to join my crew. He was this close to giving up and sticking to the book store for the rest of his life. I swooped in and saved him from mediocrity.

“I recognised his talent,” I say simply. “And that one, Shane? It’s really good.” I point to the frame that has Brendon in it. Shane beams at me. He gets called over by someone else just then, leaving Brendon behind as he goes to talk to a woman, who seems to be thinking about buying one of Shane’s works. “So you know Patrick from music circles?” I ask Brendon because he looks like he’s searching for a quick escape.

“You write music?” Gabe asks with genuine interest. He’s still giving Brendon this _look_ , and then he keeps glancing at me, and he’s got a glint in his eyes like he’s figuring this out.

“Oh, yeah. Guitar, bass, drums, piano, this and that,” Brendon shrugs. “I’ve been writing some songs. I’ve got a friend helping me out, and we’re just kind of messing around. It’s going really well. Open mic nights here and there. Still really casual. There’s potential there, though.”

“Huh,” I note, unable to hide my surprise. Brendon’s jaw sets tight, and I explain, “I just never got the impression you wanted to pursue music. That’s all.”

“You guys seem to go well back,” Gabe says, and Brendon quickly corrects him and says that not really, we barely know each other at all, he was just a roadie for us once. If Brendon was hoping to avoid speculation, he just fucked it up. He might pick up on it, not sure. Either way, he quickly says that he could really do with a mini-sandwich and heads to the buffet table. Like he doesn’t want to talk to me. Gabe watches him go. “I guess he made being on the road a hell of a lot more fun, am I right?”

I smirk. “You have _no_ idea.”

Gabe laughs, and I ignore the momentary flash of annoyance. It’s not Gabe’s business what happened that summer and definitely not what Brendon was like in bed either. Gabe understands sex, though, so I’ll speak his language. And it’s not like Gabe’s far off – I want to fuck Brendon. Monogamy is one thing, Brendon another. I can get away with it. It’s Brendon.

I try not to look at Brendon too much as he’s now pouring himself a glass of wine, but instead I try to come up with a reason to go talk to him. He doesn’t want to talk, that’s for sure. He’s just forgotten what we had, how we – He just needs to be reminded. That’s all. Then he’ll realise it’s fate that we’ve met, a golden opportunity, and we can’t let that slide. _He_ can’t let it slide. I just need to get through to him while letting him think he’s making the calls.

But suddenly, Brendon seems to have vanished. The glass he was using is now empty on the corner of the table. He drank fast. Gabe’s staring at a picture of a dog pensively, and Shane’s talking to the critic, a handful of people chatter here and there in the gallery, nodding their heads thoughtfully like assessing the art on display, but Brendon’s nowhere. His coat is still hanging on the coat stand, though, and then I see him outside through the gallery window, shoulders drawn up and hair messy in the wind.

“Gabe, I’m going out for a smoke.”

“Yeah, sure,” he returns, not looking at me. He points at the picture. “I like this one. That dog is cute.”

I pass Shane on my way to the door, ignoring how he stalls slightly like he wants to talk or make sure I’m not leaving but then doesn’t have the balls to say anything. I throw my coat on, get out a cigarette and step outside. Brendon’s on the other side of the window, leaning against the brick wall and smoking. It’s late November, and the sun has set, and he’s wearing a black dress shirt that cannot be keeping him warm.

I try my best to look taken aback by his presence. “Oh. Hey.”

He glances at me. He’s smoking the cigarette energetically, sucking on it like his life depends on it. His hair falls over his eyes a lot more than it used to. Looks good on him. His brown eyes give nothing away. It’s a wall that he had when we met, but I broke through it. Since then, he’s thrown me out and rebuilt it, twice as thick this time. Clever boy.

He says nothing.

“You got a light?” I ask and make my way over. Silently, he gets out a lighter, igniting a flame that flickers, and he protects it with his hand as I lean in to light the tip of my cigarette. It’s an excuse to stand too close to him and not to step back once the job is done. “Thanks, man.”

He pockets the lighter and looks down the street, two fingers firmly holding the cigarette to his lips. Just as I think he has no plans of saying anything, he asks, “What are you doing here?”

I blink. “Where? Oh. The exhibition?” His silence answers for him, and I shrug. “We were just walking by with Gabe, and he loves photography and shit, so I decided to indulge him. Small world, right?” I chance a look through the window and into the gallery where Gabe is yawning and heading for the buffet table for more booze. “That’s Gabe. An art lover.”

“You don’t seem surprised to see me,” he says, still just as scrutinising.

“Well, no. Shane told me you were coming.” I leave it there, not wanting to push my luck. Refrain from a B class line like ‘Guess the universe wants us to meet’ because he wouldn’t buy it. Brendon’s not that type of a romantic, if at all, and the universe doesn’t give a fuck. “Still kind of weird, right? Bumping into each other.”

“Yeah.” His voice doesn’t show any enthusiasm, interest or excitement over the thought. He’s making me work for it. He always did. Fucker.

“You disappeared pretty fast from the party last week. Didn’t get the chance to catch up properly.”

He shrugs nonchalantly, and he’s getting pretty damn good at this not-looking-me-in-the-eyes thing he’s got going. He’s almost done with the cigarette, so I offer him another one, and he accepts it silently, lighting it up and going back to what I think he plans to develop into chain-smoking. I smoke my own languidly, in no rush at all. He’s the one that’s probably freezing.

Brendon says, “I heard you moved to London.”

“Never officially. I spent a lot of time there. On and off, back and forth...” I trail off, shrugging. “Then I decided to move to New York.”

“Why?”

“Felt like I needed a change. Met some people.”

“Like Jon Walker,” he says, and he almost spits it out, and I can’t figure out why. The first time I met Jon, he was looking for Brendon because they planned on getting trashed together. Jon was teaching Brendon to play poker. Brendon kept laughing and smiling so fucking brightly, and I have seen that only a few times since. Brendon looks at me in disbelief. “You don’t remember.” He flicks hair from his forehead and stares across the street. “After a show, I don’t remember what city we were at, they all blurred in together. But their drummer? The –”

“Of course I remember. St. Louis.” I stare at him solemnly. “I remember.”

Blood. Crimson. All the yelling. Brendon was angrier than I’ve ever seen him, even more so than he ever was at me, and that’s saying something. Blood dripping from his nose, bruises the next few days. Spent my time watching them fade and change colours. I don’t mix well with blood anymore. It’s too messy. Blood, broken glass, rain, flashing ambulance lights, Spencer unconscious and not waking up, William in shock and shouting that Spencer was dead, and it was dark and in the middle of the night, and I could barely see the thick, red liquid rolling down my arm, but I could smell it. The iron. I could taste it.

Brendon took a punch from Jon’s former bandmate. He’d seen nothing. But I can’t judge other people’s misgivings based on the gravity of my own, and the memory of St. Louis has somehow gained weight over time, affecting me more than it ever did when it really happened. I just forgot that Brendon never found out that Jon had nothing to do with it.

“Jon’s a good guy,” I say defensively. I haven’t started a band with a homophobic asshole, though I honestly have no idea how Jon feels about things like that. Jon is a pretty traditional guy, but he’s been on the road and he’s seen plenty of crazy shit. There’s still a massive difference between strangers doing something and your own friend doing it. Doesn’t matter what Jon thinks. It’ll never affect the band because no one finds out about my sex life. Simple as that. “He had nothing to do with that asshole having a go at you. Brent’s the one who told their drummer in the first place.”

“Does it matter?” Brendon counters. “Jon just stood there and let it happen.”

“The guy was Jon’s friend. You were just an acquaintance,” I point out, but Brendon’s expression darkens further. I probably can’t win on this one. He’s too unconditional, is what he is. When it comes to gay rights or all that nonsense, he gets defensive. He knows he can’t expect the world to ever accept him, and that’s precisely why he tries so hard. I try to direct the conversation elsewhere with, “So you’re writing music, huh? I’d love to check it out.”

“We do mic nights every now and then,” he says dismissively.

“What do you do the rest of the time?”

He glances at me quickly. “Gig promoter. Yeah, I – It’s this company, organises concerts. I work for them. I call managers and set things up. Mostly book bands for smaller venues around Manhattan. Great job. Plenty of fun. Making valuable contacts.” That’s the only world I could ever see him in, anyway. Hanging out backstage, dirty clothes and tour weariness all over. He’s still lingering around. “I’m just really busy with everything. My music’s not been a priority lately. The past month, we’ve been trying to get Shane’s exhibition ready.” He nods towards the gallery. “He’s really talented.”

I look through the window to see Gabe and Shane talking. “He’s alright,” I shrug. The artwork is hardly awe-inducing.

“He’s a visionary,” Brendon says firmly. He’s got defiance in his tone for a reason I can’t figure out. “He does short films too, not just photography. Our apartment’s full of his cameras and things. He did documentaries back in San Francisco.”

“You guys moved out here together?”

Brendon nods. “I followed him here.”

“You’re a good friend.” Brendon gets a twisted smile on his face. He knows something I don’t. “What?”

He takes a deep drag and exhales before saying, “He’s my partner.”

I keep staring. Have they co-founded a company or what?

“As in my boyfriend. Lover. Whatever you want to call it, that’s what he is.”

“What?” I laugh. He’s bullshitting me now. My eyes find Shane inside the gallery again, trying to visualise him with Brendon but can’t. “That guy?” I clarify, trying to find the joke, but Brendon just nods. “He said you’re roommates. _Several_ times.”

“This isn’t The Castro. Landlords don’t want fags living in their apartments,” he says with a roll of his eyes. “We say we’re roommates. We keep the second bedroom for clutter and try to keep it quiet at night. We’re not _really_ roommates.”

My immediate response is ‘fuck you’, but I bite it back. His tone is obnoxious, his choice of words deliberate. Not roommates, keeping it quiet at night. Okay. Got it. No need to fill my mind with images of them fucking, tone full of insinuation. That guy? _That_ guy? Mr. ‘Oh My God, Ryan Ross’ with the puppy look of the month, the guy who snaps pictures of puddles and calls it art? Shane’s handsome, I took note of that the first time I met him, but looks aren’t everything.

That guy’s not right for Brendon. Anyone can see that.

“I thought you were too cute to settle down.” Brendon quirks an eyebrow, and I say, “One of the first things I ever heard you say was that you were too cute to settle down.” My words are an accusation. In my thoughts, he was fucking every guy in San Francisco, living it up and causing a riot, not playing house with some part-time record store employee.

“I met the right guy,” Brendon says simply, now finishing his cigarette and stubbing it against the wall. He steps forward and looks into the gallery. He smiles when he spots Shane. “Shane’s amazing. He’s funny and he’s smart and he’s kind and he’s loving...” he lists, then turns to me. “I’m really lucky. We’re really happy.”

Throw it in my face, then. Immature brat.

“Sounds great. I’m in a relationship too, actually.” I accompany my words with a modest shrug.

“You are?” he asks, smiling like he’s expecting an amusing punch line. “Don’t tell me you and Jac are still together.”

“Please.” One of the first things I did at the hospital was call Jac and tell her not to bother rushing up north to check up on us. It was over. I didn’t want to see her. It wasn’t that easy, and it got ugly and stuff got thrown around, us name-calling each other through gritted teeth. She and Joe had a fling the following spring, or so I heard. Both just wanted revenge. “No, I’m seeing this new girl. Have been since this spring, actually. Keltie’s the real deal. She’s a dancer. She’s just, god, she’s just gorgeous, you know? Dancers. Their bodies are just – There are muscles you didn’t know existed. Blonde hair, pair of brown eyes... Fantastic girl.”

I can’t read his expression at all.

He says, “I’m happy for you.”

Fuck you.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m happy for me too,” I declare. “I’m doing really well. Who says people can’t change, right?”

“Agreed,” he says, like it’s that simple. “I know I’m a different person now.” He sounds contemplative but matter-of-fact. Defiant, almost.

He looks different, sounds different, acts different. But he’s not.

He, if anyone, should know that you can never actually leave your past behind, but here he is, the epitome of self-improvement, like I knew a more primitive and lesser form of him. He wasn’t a full person then, but now he’s complete. Not completed by me, not at all. He’s making damn sure I don’t accidentally think that. He nods at the building. “I better head back inside. Chilly out here. But good, you know. Knowing that you’re doing well.”

“Yeah. You too.”

And he smiles at me, the way you’d smile to a stranger, or to someone you know you’re never going to see again, awkward but comforting like the encounter was not as unpleasant as it could have been. I want to snatch a hold of his shoulders and ask if he’s fucking kidding me here. If he’s done. Because it seems to me like he is, but he’s not allowed to be if I’m not.

He goes back inside, and I stand where I am, mind racing. My throat feels tight, an angry burn deep in my guts. Through the window, I see Shane smiling at Brendon warmly. They keep their hands to themselves, but I can’t unsee it now – the two of them together. Going back home tonight and cuddling in their bed. Brendon with his nine-to-five job, mingling with music industry bastards, demonstrating his talent in mic nights. Going places. Happy and content.

The last time I saw him, he didn’t have a job. He didn’t have a place to stay. He owned a guitar, some clothes, a boxful of crap, and he said no to me, like he knew that some day he would achieve things far greater than me. And not greater in terms of fame or prestige or legend, because only a handful of living musicians are competing with me in those categories, but greater in terms of what really matters. Love, friendship, loyalty... Home. The things he didn’t think I’d give. The things he thought I didn’t include in my offer of letting him be my dirty secret. He was right. Those things weren’t included, but I thought it should have been enough, anyway.

Here he is, telling me that he made the right call when he told me to leave. That he’s so much happier for it.

Gabe comes outside, looking puzzled. “You okay?” he asks, buttoning up his jacket. I say nothing, but he looks inside where Brendon and Shane are. “You two rendezvousing later then? There’s that shitty hotel around the corner that we passed.” He wiggles his eyebrows at me.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

He stares at me in confusion before his expression clears. “Ooh!” he laughs teasingly. “Ryan Ross got turned down!”

“I said I –”

“Oh, come on! Cheer up!”

I stuff my hands in my pockets and hurry down the street because I refuse to stand outside the gallery, knee deep in rejection. I could fuck half of New York if I wanted to, I could sleep with most of my friends’ girlfriends or wives, I could rob a bank and still get votes of sympathy because I’m not just anyone. I mean something to everyone. But not to him. He brushes me off and goes back to his boyfriend.

Gabe says, “I’m sure he’ll come around. Even _I’d_ fuck you. I just worry it’d ruin our beautiful friendship.”

His voice is still grinning, and I snap, “Fuck off.”

It’s not that funny that I got turned down. And not just by some chick or some guy, but –

Gabe sighs, now falling into step next to me. He is quiet for an unusually long time for him, like he grasps the gravity of the situation a little. “I bought that print of the dog, by the way. It was cute. Shane seemed really happy about it.”

Fucking fantastic. Now Shane’s making money out of me trying to hook up with his boyfriend. All that time Shane was talking to me, nervous, shy, excited... All that time he had one on me. Going home to Brendon. Slipping into bed with him. Lazy Sunday morning sex. Brendon’s smile. Shane doesn’t even fucking know what he’s got.

“You still owe me a drink for going,” Gabe says, reminding me of my earlier promise.

“I owe _myself_ a drink for going.”

We head to the bar we passed on the way, and I keep my fists shut tight, pissed off at everything and everyone.

So Brendon’s found love.

Well, I’ll drink to that.


	3. Someone Else’s Dream

“Oh my god, get off me!” Keltie laughs, shoving me backwards half-heartedly.

“No,” I say simply, still trying to make her put down the newspaper and have sex with me. Takes two to tango. My attempts are proving fruitless, though. She’s in my bed, under the covers with me, and she’s only wearing a white top and pink panties, which is a hell of a turn on, and she is honestly expecting me to accept the fact that she’d rather read the paper than fuck me. Should we not be _worried_?

I go back to kissing her neck, one of her weak spots, but she squirms, still holding her newspaper with one hand, pushing me back with the other.

“Ryan, we had sex _twice_ last night,” she protests, and I can feel the way her body is saying no to my advances. I let myself slump against her, draping over her a little, but she doesn’t seem to mind. She only readjusts the big glasses on her nose and keeps reading, the newspaper folded, her hand moving to my hair and carding softly as she reads. I try rubbing her left breast, see if I can get a reaction, but she smacks my hand away even though her nipple hardens. I’m not hard, but I _could_ be, and we could kick off this day with some decent, half-assed sex, and then we could walk around all day with that ‘I’ve gotten laid’ glow about us, pissing off single people.

“This is sad,” I argue.

“There, there.” She pats my head. “I am sure we will have more sex some day. Do not lose faith.”

I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling. She’s focused on the culture section, but I’m restless. I’m always restless. “Would you say we’re happy?”

She lowers the newspaper. “Huh?”

“Like, if someone asked you about us. Would you say we’re happy or would you say that we’re _really_ happy? I mean, if you say you’re _really_ happy, do you think that implies you have more sex than just normally happy couples?”

She keeps staring at me. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Nothing.” I suck in a breath. “Never mind.”

She gives me a confused look and then goes back to reading. I’m not mad at her. It’s not her fault.

“You’re in the paper,” she then informs me.

“Yeah? What this time? That I moved to New York to pursue a modelling career, intent on leaving music behind?”

“No, listen. ‘Rock icon Ryan Ross –’” I snort, but she keeps going, “‘– was the most eye-catching piece of art present.’ It’s a review for an exhibition. Did you go to this thing? It says that – Wait, here. ‘As a pioneer of modern music, it is clear that Ross sees the potential that may escape a less observant eye.’ Guy’s called Valdes.” She lowers the papers and peers at me. “I didn’t know you liked art.”

“Gabe and I accidentally stumbled into that place a few nights back. The photography wasn’t even that good.”

“Well, he’s going to be selling them now. The critic concludes that it had to be good stuff since you were there.”

How fucking nice.

I get out of bed, crossing the short distance to the bathroom door. Keltie stays in bed, and I leave the bathroom door ajar, a slight invitation. She should come in and distract me. I pull my boxers off and hit the shower.

She probably won’t take me up on my silent offer because we _did_ have sex twice last night, which is pretty okay for a couple that’s been together for... um... She keeps track of the anniversaries, not me. Seven months, maybe? So if we still fuck twice a night every now and then, that’s a decent score.

Okay, twice is laughable. Rewind a few years, and it was nothing.

Joe and I had a pretty fucked up competition going on our first headlining tour. I’m pretty sure I was winning, but then Spencer said that he would not live in a bus filled with dirty panties, Jesus Christ, and he threw our hard earned trophies out of the window somewhere between Wichita and Kansas City.

I never beat Joe’s record of five chicks in one night, excluding threesomes and foursomes because those were considered cheating. It was fun at the time, but then it lost its meaning, and girls changed from something to chase into predators, and suddenly, I was the one being chased, and they weren’t satisfied with a quick fuck either. They all wanted songs written about them.

And then Brendon came along. Or the old Brendon, it seems. It would have been gracious of him to let me know that he decided to become a new person. Send a postcard, call me, use William as a middleman. Inform the world that he was done fooling around and wanted to settle down. Because I would have talked him out of it. I would have been there in time to stop this. He never stopped to ask for my permission. I wouldn’t have granted it.

He keeps doing this, starting a new life every three or four fucking years, disowning what came before. Life doesn’t work like that. I bet anything that he still avoids Utah like the plague, still loves David’s _Changes_ the best, still sings in the shower... Still fucking loves riding cock.

When I met him, I realised that I hadn’t actually explored sex as much as I thought I had. Fuck, he made me feel so insatiable all the time, even more so because I couldn’t have him whenever I felt like it. But I wanted him. All day, all night. His lips and his ass and his gasps – And _he_ was insatiable. We never got to know each other for more than a few months, but I am sure it wouldn’t have changed. Seven months down the road, we still would have been fucking as often because Brendon, well, he’s a cockslut if there ever was one. I think he had a kink for virgins too. That summer, the guys I saw him with? A few of them definitely looked like they had no idea what was happening. They were just spellbound, because there was this guy, this gorgeous fucking guy that was with the band, all sexy smiles and flirtatious eyes and a damn amazing body, and no, no, they didn’t swing that way, it was just this _one_ guy and a night of sinful pleasure. I’m sure he managed to fuck a few sexually confused guys. Managed to fuck me too. Fucked me and then fucked me over.

And now he’s playing house with Shane. Who the hell’s he kidding?

Not that he’s a slut. I’ll punch the lights out of anyone who says that. He just knew what he liked and went for it, and _Shane_ hardly looks like the guy to keep Brendon satisfied. They’re _so_ happy, though, all sunshine and puppies and confetti and rainbows, and now Shane’s sad little exhibition is a success on my account. Fuck them. I had sex twice with my girlfriend last night. I wonder what they got up to. If they fucked. If Brendon rode Shane’s cock, or if Brendon was flat on his back, legs bent over his stomach to keep himself exposed, or maybe he was on his hands and knees, back arching, muffling moans into the pillow because they have to keep it quiet, just like we had to most of the summer, him biting on pillows, his hand, my tongue –

“Well,” Keltie’s voice comes, and I open my eyes, standing under the showerhead, trying to get water out of my eyes. The bathroom’s misty, a distorted and unrecognisable reflection of me in the mirror. She’s in the doorway; I didn’t bother pulling the shower curtain closed. She’s eyeing my crotch with a quirked eyebrow, and I look down. Oh. Well.

Keltie smirks and pulls her shirt off.

“Sing it like you mean it,” I tell her, and she rolls her eyes and pushes her panties off before stepping into the shower. I feel victorious.

Morning sex. Picture perfect couple. We _are_ happy.

She hisses when I press her against the tiles that must be cold. I lean down, kiss her breasts, suck on her nipples, one hand between her legs where she’s warm and soft and inviting.

She’s the one to turn around – I don’t, don’t even hint it, don’t suggest it – spreading her legs, bracing herself against the tiles, offering herself. And fuck, I go frantic from the invitation, kissing her shoulders, her neck, touching her all over, my cock greedily pressing against her ass. My fingers slip between her cheeks, and she’s still stretched from last night. She sucks in a sharp breath, and she might be sore. I went too hard on her. She wants this, though, and I line myself up with her hole, pushing inside and going deep without further ado. She groans, high-pitched, caught by surprise. I hold her hips pressed to me, trying to catch my breath before realising fuck, who needs air, and start fucking her ass, urgent, vibrant, getting off with my partner, girlfriend, lover, whatever you want to call her. It feels like I haven’t fucked in weeks.

We ran out of condoms after the first time last night, and we were both still horny so it made sense to resort to this. This morning, clearly the same excuse. But I don’t need excuses with her. She’s _into_ this, was into this before she even met me. She’s the one who asked for it. And what wouldn’t I do to please her?

I fuck her hard, closing my eyes, focusing on the way she feels. She’s fingering her clit, moaning. I don’t pay attention much, just fuck her, god, tight, hot, and I love it like this, dirty and no excuses, knowing the stakes.

“God, I –” she says, stopping to catch her breath. I suck on her earlobe, other hand cupping her left breast. She’s fucking tight, and it’s so good, so satisfying. I fuck her harder, and she gasps, “Love how- how wild you get from this.”

I groan in response, admitting it. She’s got an amazing ass, firm, pale cheeks, but I wish it was rounder, fuller. God, it’d suit her, a bigger ass, something to properly grab onto mid-fuck, pull, knead, and a wider waist, bigger all over, fuck, but still small and narrow, brown hair, broad shoulders, and that full ass, and god, if just –

“Ryan,” she groans, and I screw my eyes shut as I come inside her. She makes a sound of protest because, yeah, she doesn’t like it when I do that. I let myself ride it out for a second longer before I pull out, finishing off on the backs of her thighs. The water’s running, taking my spilled seed with it. I press a groan into her skin.

She’s still tense, her ass a beautiful red from my hips having slammed against it, and she turns around, flushed, on edge, pupils blown, and I kiss her sloppily, say, “I’ll eat you out, fuck, I’ll,” and then I drop on my knees clumsily, hands on her hips and proceed to do just that.

Sex isn’t a novelty when you can have it on a regular basis. It’s just something we do, something I try not to do with anyone else. Twice last night, now in the morning... That hardly makes us sex crazed. I’ve only felt like that once in my life. One summer. With him. It’s a stupid feeling, the want, dark and dirty, impatience even when he’s there, even when he’s beneath me, responding to every light touch.

But I’m happy. We’re happy. We’re happy, we’re happy, I’m content, I don’t need to see him ever again, I can forget, I know the score, and ‘We’re really happy together’, he said, ‘I found the right guy’, he said. Good. Fuck off to Brooklyn, then, with your shitty art and your handsome boyfriend and your musical talent and decent job and valuable contacts. Fuck off, fuck off, and don’t come into my SoHo cafés or Village bars. I eat my girlfriend’s pussy in the mornings before calling the label big shots that bend to my will, and after that, I have lunch with Cat fucking Stevens and Pete fucking Townshend, so screw him. Let him sink into oblivion because he’s too small on my map.

No one in this world says no to me, no one except him.

By the time Keltie comes, I’m hard again. The water’s turned cold, but my skin feels electrified. Can’t stop fucking thinking about him.

I stand back up and kiss Keltie, my erection pressing into her stomach. Her breathing hitches – she didn’t realise I was hard again.

“What’s gotten into you?” she asks, voice full of wonder, awe almost.

Nothing. No one. I just need to fuck her to get Brendon out of my system. That’s all.

* * *

“I know how important artistic integrity is to you,” Vicky says, nodding with serious eyes. “Really, you take two years on that album if you need to.” She’s got her long, brown hair loose, perfectly shiny. The restaurant is expensive, but Vicky said on the phone that business is business and ill suited for cafés or bars. She’s still dressed like a rocker, though, black jeans, a leather jacket and a plain white t-shirt under it, but no one should think she’s strolled in from a smoky bar – she’s the best and most efficient manager I’ve ever had. Pete could hardly do his fucking job compared to Vicky. Glad I changed management, changed labels. Glad the car crash made me immortal.

“There’s a but,” I tell Vicky, trying to focus on this. It’s hard to.

She nods, pursing her lips together. “But when was the last time you released new material?”

“ _Boneless_.”

“Exactly. It’s been two and a half years, Ryan. And I know, I know, _Boneless_ has stayed in the charts since its release, and we both know how talented you are! You’re not hard to sell. It’s just that,” she pauses and sighs. “Where are you? You gave one interview last summer, and I had to twist your arm for that. You’re not touring. You’re not recording. People are forgetting to expect new things from you. We need them to _expect_.”

I frown solemnly. This part of advertisement, trying to sell yourself, I detest. “We’re recording late January or early February. The album will be out by May. Then we’ll tour, like we agreed. I’m doing things.” My tone is defensive for no reason.

She looks around thoughtfully, and I turn back to the food she ordered, fried fish lying on a salad bed. She said something about fatty acids and how I don’t eat like I should. When I signed the contract with her, she said I no longer had to worry about anything: bills, money, food, sleep, PR. She’s got me covered down to vitamins.

She’s holding a silver cigarette holder to her lips, brows furrowing. “We need a bang.”

“A bang?”

She nods. “So that when you do release the album, the world stops. Something new. Something innovative. Something that will bring you into the consciousness of every single person in this country, from an ugly toddler to a brainless housewife.” She blows out cigarette smoke, eyes nailed to the distance. Two young women sitting next to our table are looking at us, having recognised me.

I shift uncomfortably. “Isn’t it your job to figure out how we do that?”

She snaps out of her daze and gives me a bright smile. “Of course! I’m just thinking aloud here, never mind me. You just write your music, I’ll take care of everything else. All I’m saying is that if you’ve got any ideas, then run them by me. That’s what I’m here for. I can make anything happen for you.”

“I know.”

Sincere gratitude is obvious in my tone. It’s her job, but god, I’m fucking happy she’s here, taking care of everything for me. She’s swamped making calls and negotiations on my behalf every day, talking to the team that revolves around me even when I don’t do anything: a lawyer, an accountant, song royalties, ongoing post-mortem Followers management. I don’t need to worry about any of it. I can stick to my friends, the bars, the rehearsal space, the band, have a good time. Being a successful musician is a lot of paper work.

The women next to our table now stand up and take steps towards us, but Vicky notices them instantly, her eyes thinning. “Excuse me. My client is not signing autographs or giving statements at this time.”

I take a sip of my wine, not even bothering to look at the women. Vicky shoos them away with the authority I’ve invested upon her. Then she turns back to me like nothing’s happened. “You want to shake off The Followers ghost, that’s all. Like Joe did.”

She means nothing by it, but I lose my appetite and let the half-eaten fish filet lie forgotten.

Joe’s everywhere. The fucker. Trust him to call me a fag and then put make-up on and start a glam rock band. I’ve seen him on the LP covers – blood red one piece suit, sparkling, too tight and leaving very little to the imagination. I know he’s got a big cock – I’ve seen it – but he wants the entire world to acknowledge it too.

It doesn’t make up for his musical mediocrity, but people lap it up, anyway. The former guitarist of The Followers. Now that’s something. That’s important. Good for Joe. Good for him. He’s finally the star he wanted to be. Asshole.

“Did you sort things out with Patrick yet?” I ask to distract myself, using her lighter to light my own cigarette.

“Oh, yes. I did. He’s wet behind the ears, isn’t he?”

“Don’t tell me you screwed him over.”

“Wish I could’ve,” she sighs. “Gabe came with him, went through the contract for Patrick and explained everything. Made me change clauses. God, I’m ashamed to admit it, but I couldn’t fuck that newbie over at all.” She sucks the end of the cigarette holder, looking genuinely upset. “I blame that Gabe of yours.”

Gabe and Vicky don’t exactly get along, probably because Gabe is always trying to get Vicky into bed with him. He’s managed, actually, but Vicky’s told me that she was drunk and that I am never, ever to bring it up. Gabe persists in his efforts, however, pissing her off frequently. First and foremost, Vicky’s a professional. You don’t mess with her. All Gabe wants to do is mess with her.

She says, “Patrick’s signed the contract. It’s all good. Don’t you worry about it.” I see her hesitating before she says, “You know I could have gotten you anyone. Could’ve gotten you Ian Paice.”

“He’s a rock drummer. I’ve had enough of rockers.”

She shrugs like if that’s how I want it, there’s nothing she can do. I keep smoking, and we finish the bottle of wine standing on the table.

“Oh, there’s something I need,” I then say, digging into my pockets and handing her a crumpled up flyer. She takes it, lifting a perfectly trimmed eyebrow in interest. “There’s a frame in that exhibition I want. The only one with a guy in it.”

“Done.” She folds the flyer and stuffs it in her bra. She doesn’t ask why. She never does.

Before our lunch meeting is over, she goes through her bag and gets out five different contracts for me to sign. I do without reading any of them.

* * *

“Are you busy tonight?” Gabe asks me, looking earnest.

Over his shoulder, Jon looks appalled because we got to the practice space half an hour ago and Gabe’s already talking about what comes after. Gabe’s a fantastic musician and he loves what he does, but he also has the attention span of a five-year-old.

I shrug. I make my plans as I go. When I wake up in the early afternoon, I have no idea what I’ll do before it’s morning again.

“We should really figure out _Rampant_ first,” Jon argues. I keep tuning the guitar, perched firmly on one of the stools. Patrick’s behind the drum kit, twirling drumsticks and adjusting his cardigan. Gabe’s got his bass hanging around him, and he looks hungover but he also manages to make it appear charming somehow. We form a circle in the practice room, an empty space between us, room for ideas to flow back and forth.

It’s a nice practice room, and I would expect nothing less, considering that Vicky found it for us. There are plenty of lights in the ceiling, always giving the impression that it must be day even if it’s night, and the walls are thick and sound-proofed, covered with an Indian rug-like wallpaper, psychedelic patterns curving and circling in dark colours. The place had cement flooring at first, but I said that it wouldn’t do, and now we’ve got light maple flooring. We’ve still thrown rugs of various types on it to make the room more homey, and the space is hopelessly cluttered but we always manage to find what we’re looking for.

“We should really discuss what we do tonight,” Gabe argues.

“It’ll be fun,” Patrick says, smiling at me. “I mean, it’s just going to be me and a few of my friends, no one famous or anything, but you should come. If you want to.”

“You’re coming too, you know,” Gabe now informs Jon, and when Jon looks confused, Gabe says, “Last night. At the bar. We _talked_ about this, and by ‘we’ I mean Cassie and I.” Gabe grins at me. “Ice skating.”

I now join Jon in staring. “Ice skating?” I repeat. “As in... the thing where you put on skates and go on ice?”

“Precisely! Cassie thought it was a great idea! Patrick’s going and then Cassie said something about Chicago and how she misses it, and Cassie’s having lunch with Keltie today and said that she’d invite Kelts so I assume she’s coming too, and we can _all_ go.” Gabe grins like a maniac, staring at me expectantly. He has to be high. No one in their right mind would think that is a good idea. It’s cold out there, it’s early December, and it’s _ice_ , and I was brought up in Las Vegas. No ice. I have not ice skated in my life and don’t plan to. I’ve already broken bones.

“Does the guy who runs the rink sell drugs?” I ask, trying to figure out what’s really going on, and Gabe rolls his eyes.

“Think how fucking badass our bookworm here will be when he shows up with Ryan Ross. Come on, help Paddy get some cool points so that he can finally get some Class A pussy.” Gabe nods like this is what he’s after, and Patrick has turned bright red behind the drum kit.

“Cassie said she wanted to go?” Jon asks, attaching a strap to his guitar, looking thoughtful. “Okay, sure. We’ll go.”

I stare at The Whiskeys, as they are now officially called. I signed a paper on that too. They seriously plan to go ice skating. Not a strip club or a rock show or a drug lair, not at all. They want to run ahead and join picket fence America, get into the Christmas spirit. I need a new band.

“It’ll cheer you up, man,” Gabe says, clearly seeing the ‘hell no’ on my face.

“It might,” Jon agrees. “You’ve been really moody lately.”

I turn to my guitar quickly. “I’ll come along and watch you stupid fuckers fall on your asses. I’m not skating. I’ve got dignity.”

“Sure you do,” Gabe grins, and it’s only then he starts asking what we’ve planned for _Rampant_.

The new music is different from The Followers, which made band music. It was loud and overpowering, all parts and aspects demanding attention. This is different, even the name suggests it: Ryan Ross and The Whiskeys. I’m at the forefront, me, my voice, my lyrics, my guitar, and they back me up. Jon and I do all the song-writing, and I do all the lyrics. I could have hired session musicians and dictated the entire show, but I’m not comfortable standing alone in the spotlight, even if it is my music. Creating an actual band around me, a band that sticks to the recording and touring, helps me relax. Something old, something new. Half of the songs are acoustic, too. Acoustic music is dead. My fans will kill me. Let them.

Normally, we stay at the practice space late into the night, writing songs that we discard and never use. I want to find the perfect ones. This time, though, we finish up early because Gabe promised Cassie that we’d meet her at seven.

It’s started snowing during the time we spent in the basement, and we come out to a chaotic Bleecker Street. I button up my winter coat the best I can to protect from the cold. I’m not used to this climate. London got wet and miserable during winter with the occasional sleet, but New York’s cold goes straight into my bones. Gabe hails us a cab.

“We’re going out drinking afterwards, right?” I ask when we’re crammed in the backseat, Patrick having taken the passenger seat. The wipers of the car keep making a wheezing sound against the window.

“’Course,” Gabe promises. Patrick adjusts his glasses and Jon tries to get snow out of his hair.

When we get to the rink, I realise it’s bigger than I expected. Dozens of skaters are gliding on the ice, kids screaming, people inching forwards with arms outstretched to balance themselves. It’s getting dark now, but they’ve got lights around the edges, illuminating the ice and the skaters. The trees of Central Park are dead and bare, rising high into the air, and behind them, skyscrapers take over the skyline. We can’t find the girls at first, but then Jon spots them already on the ice. Patrick and Gabe stay behind to buy tickets while Jon and I walk to the barrier that surrounds the rink. Jon waves the girls over.

Cassie and Keltie both skate over to us, eloquently and gracefully with huge smiles on their faces. Their cheeks are rosy from the cold and exertion. “You look good out there,” Jon says, leaning over the barrier to briefly kiss Cassie.

“You coming too, right?” Cassie asks, and Jon nods while I shake my head.

Keltie pouts at me. “You’re not skating?”

“No.”

She sighs but doesn’t push it. She knows when I mean no. “I’ll stand here and watch,” I then amend. Happy couple, happy couple...

The girls take hold of each other’s hands as they take off, and Jon seems a bit nervous but still excited. He said earlier that he hasn’t ice skated since he was a boy.

“Come on,” Gabe calls from behind us. “Patrick’s friends are here.” Jon takes one estimating look at the ice before he heads over, and I grudgingly tread behind. Gabe waits for me, and then he leans close, voice lowering so that Jon doesn’t hear as he adds a mischievous, “Don’t say I never did anything for you.”

I blink at him, confused, eyes focusing on the backs of three guys Patrick is now talking to. I follow Jon, hands deep in my pockets.

The guy with crazy, curly brown hair – like an afro, almost, exploding around his head – notices me first. He looks young, twenty-two at most, relatively short and tiny. He pales and stares at me, not saying anything. The other two guys follow afro boy’s stare and –

“Jon and Ryan, meet Ian, Brendon and Shane,” Patrick says, motioning between us and them. “Guys, this is Jon Walker, he plays guitar, and then this is, well. This is Ryan.”

Gabe is by my side now, grinning broadly. The fucker planned this. The _fucker_.

Jon looks taken aback before he says, “Brendon! Hey!” They didn’t meet at Eric’s party. Jon and Brendon actually haven’t met in years, but Jon doesn’t need a second in remembering Brendon. He makes an impression. Shane’s beaming at me, and Brendon is looking from Ian to Patrick to us like this has got to be some fucked up joke. “We met back in ‘74,” Jon says, though I know Brendon remembers. “You were touring with The Followers! Ry, it’s your old roadie!” Jon nudges my side as if I might be unaware of this.

Brendon gives Jon and me a strained smile. “Hi.” Then he looks down at his shoes. The afro guy, Ian, is still staring at me. Maybe he’s mute.

“We meet again!” Shane now enthuses. “God, what a coincidence!”

“Yes. That’s _exactly_ what it is,” Gabe says with unconvincing nods. “Well,” he then laughs, “let’s go put some skates on!”

I take the opportunity to say, “Gabe, a word?” I promptly lead us away from the guys as they now head over to the skate booth. Gabe is giving me an all-knowing smirk, like he’s just done something extremely remarkable. I look at him, trying to understand this. Then I say, “What the fuck?”

He instantly launches into it. “Patrick knows Brendon! Mic nights! ¿Recuerdas? And I was talking to Patrick last night, and he said he was coming skating with his friend Ian, who plays in a band with Brendon, and it’s not a common name, is it? So I asked a few questions and realised it was _your_ Brendon! And now he’s here! He’s not gonna turn you down twice, is he? You can definitely get him into bed this time!” He acts like my sex life affects him personally or, more likely, he’s just so intrigued by the situation that he is giving himself the right to interfere.

“Have you lost it? Keltie’s here!”

“Eh, I’ll distract her,” he shrugs.

“Goddammit, Gabe!”

I didn’t want to see Brendon anymore. Or I did. I wanted to, but at the same time I didn’t. I don’t know. I couldn’t decide, but Gabe decided for me. I don’t _need_ to witness any more of Brendon’s blossoming love. He made it clear that he has no interest whatsoever, and he wasn’t playing hard to get either. I can tell the difference between the two, and I wasn’t as subtle as I wanted to be. He knew I was still interested, and that makes the rejection that much worse.

“Come on!” Gabe chuckles. “At the gallery, he tensed up the second he realised you were in the room! He could barely look away. He totally wants you, man.”

“No, he fucking hates me,” I correct angrily, and Gabe looks confused. “Look, things with us came to a pretty nasty end. Alright? And Shane over there is his boyfriend, so what? I stand here while they ogle at each other? Not my idea of a good time.”

“The artist’s a fag?”

I nod, and Gabe hums like he is reassessing the situation. He doesn’t seem to see what the problem is. Then he says, “I can distract him too.”

He flashes a smile at me, and I swear under my breath as he goes to join the rest of the party. I march to the barrier of the rink and get out a cigarette. I’ll just pretend they’re not even here.

The snow fall has almost stopped now, only a few occasional flakes falling down. In front of me, a little girl falls flat on her ass and starts crying. Her father skates over and picks her up. I turn the collar of my jacket upright and try to hide. I don’t necessarily have to speak to Brendon at all.

I still see him as he and the others enter the rink. Jon’s alright on skates, taking a few careful strides before he finds Cassie in the mix of people going clockwise. Patrick’s also got the whole skating thing figured out, but Ian is trying hard to stand upright. Brendon’s doing better, but he’s clutching onto Shane, who’s laughing.

I hope that the both of them fall down on their asses, break their hips, and get hospitalised for the rest of winter.

Ian crashes flat on his back. Keltie skates past him and does a pirouette. She’s Canadian – she’s got the whole ice skating thing in her blood. Ian bravely gets up, waves his arms helplessly, and then falls flat on his ass again. Whoosh once.

Whoosh twice. I accidentally drop the cigarette I’m holding. It hits the ice and rolls on its glittering surface, and I watch it ruefully before getting another one out. I have too many damn pockets, I know I –

“You’re not joining us?” an overly friendly voice asks, and I cringe before looking up and seeing Shane. Brendon’s with him, now letting go of Shane’s arm and moving to take a hold of the barrier not-so-gracefully.

“I have self-respect,” I tell Shane flatly. I no longer have any fucking reason to pretend to be nice to this guy, especially when I’ve probably made his stupid show a success. Brendon manages to stand still as he holds onto the barrier firmly. He’s clearly not a very experienced skater, but he’s doing better than Ian, who is now getting helped back up by Jon and Patrick for what must be the fourth time.

Idiot Artist says, “That’s a shame!”

A flame emerges from my lighter as I light a second cigarette. “What is?” I ask. “That I am not a miserable cunt who enjoys public humiliation to further worsen childhood traumas? I’ve got nothing to apologise for.”

Shane looks taken aback. Fuck him.

“Just a shame you’re not skating with us.”

“Sure. Hey, Kelts!” I call out, waving, and Keltie waves happily and skates over to us. She’s out of breath, but her eyes are sparkling. She’s clearly enjoying herself.

“This is so much fun!” she exclaims before looking at Brendon and Shane curiously, and I make the introductions, making sure to say ‘my girlfriend’ at least thrice. Shane shakes her hand. Brendon can’t because he’s clutching the barrier, but Brendon’s looking at her. Good. She’s easy on the eyes.

Then she focuses on Brendon and says, “We’ve met!”

I freeze, my elbows leaning on the barrier, my right hand still as the cigarette is fitted between my fore and middle fingers. Brendon looks confused – better than that blank expression he’s been giving me so far – but I’m confused too. “Huh?” I ask Keltie.

“ _Jackie_ tour! I’ve told you a million times, Ryan!”

“Right, yeah. Right.”

No matter what she tells me, I don’t actually remember her. I met hundreds of people that summer – if she toured with a support band of ours for five shows without ever actually _talking_ to me, then she cannot expect me to remember her. I remember her friend, though, who tried to set up a threesome with Brendon and me. I remember that girl, but not Keltie. Keltie was upset about that, but then I eventually said that, oh yeah, I vaguely remember now, yes, of course.

“I’m sorry, I don’t remember you,” Brendon says.

“I was one of the dancers on the Canadian dates?” she offers, looking hopeful. Brendon shakes his head slowly. She sighs in defeat, looking thoughtful. “Oh! This one time Pete told me to come find you! We walked back together, remember? In, uh, it was... Ottawa! You and Ryan were outside by the bus, I remember because even then I kept thinking how handsome Ryan was!” she laughs. “It was after the show. You really don’t remember?”

Brendon looks at me briefly, eyes wide. He remembers. Not Keltie, but he remembers what actually matters.

“Sorry. No.”

Keltie looks disappointed. Gabe skates over to us then, and he’s surprisingly good at it, keeping his balance, even knowing how to brake. He is sticking to his distraction promise, although I’d rather he didn’t, but he quickly convinces Shane and Keltie to come skating with him. “You’d slow us down, man,” he tells Brendon, linking arms with Keltie and Shane and pulling them away.

I want to ignore Brendon’s presence or perhaps just blow some smoke in his face. Instead, I say, “You’re not very good at that.”

He glares and lets go of the barrier, wavering a little as he stands on the skates. “At least I’ve got the balls to try it out.” He takes tentative steps, moving right in front of me.

He’s in a bad mood. Clearly the effect of my gorgeous girlfriend. She’s real. Yup. Didn’t make her up. And if he is worried I’ll try and flirt with him some more, he can dream on. I’m over that.

Brendon tries to take off, but ice skating is clearly not one of his strong points because he loses balance, and I instinctively reach out to steady him, cigarette falling onto the ice a second time. That’s how you can always tell where I’ve stood – just follow the stubs. When I die some day, my grave will be surrounded by them. My grave will become a stub mountain.

I grip Brendon’s arms, and he grips mine, pulling on my jacket as he swears. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I’ve got this, I’ve –”

His feet slip, and he crashes against me, body pressing into my chest. My lower ribs get squashed against the barrier as he pulls me in, air leaving my lungs. He clings onto me for balance, and I fist the back of his jacket to keep him standing.

“Whoa – just –”

“I’ve _got_ this, don’t –”

He almost falls down again, pressing further into me, but then steadies. His breath washes over my neck, his hair pressed against my nose, and I breathe him in without meaning to. We stay still in the awkwardly fitted embrace, and my fingers tighten their hold of his jacket. It’s like he’s too afraid to move. “Fuck,” he swears eventually, placing a hand on my shoulder, pulling himself back. His breathing is shallow, cheeks rosy – from the cold? From whatever he’s thinking right now as he looks at me, eyes flying over my features? He looks surprised. Taken aback. His eyes are wide and dark, lips red and parted. And I could lean in, right here, right in front of all these people. I wouldn’t care.

Brendon’s gaze suddenly fixes behind me. His hand instantly drops from my shoulder. “Ian. Gave up already?” He pulls back quickly, clutching the barrier again instead of me. His cheeks are redder than they were a second ago, and he is trying his best not to look at me. I keep my eyes on him, taking in every detail.

“Y-Yeah,” a timid voice sounds from behind me, but I don’t look at the crazy afro kid. “N-Not very good at skating.”

“Neither am I,” Brendon laughs forcedly, chuckling at his friend, but he’s acting guilty, caught red-handed. He glances at me briefly before he braves the ice and skates away clumsily. Must be bad if blackening bruises are preferred to my embraces.

I finally turn to Ian, who looks nauseous, gazing at me like he’s seen a ghost. He fidgets, pulling on the sleeves of his thick jacket. He stays where he is like he’s too afraid to come closer. Keltie and Cassie skate by, waving at me. Brendon’s reunited with Shane, who laughs brightly, sparkly teeth and sparkly eyes and sparkly, sparkly, and I turn around fully to lean against the barrier. My heart keeps beating fast, but I try to ignore it.

“Ian, right?” I ask, and he nods. I beckon him over with a single finger, and he takes steps towards me, rigid and unsure. “You’re in a band with Brendon?”

“It’s, uh. It’s his music. I just help play it.” He says nothing else, but he’s staring at me like he expects me to say something amazing. A lot of fans do – they expect me to speak in lyrics non-stop, offer grains of infinite wisdom. I don’t. When the silence drags on, Ian blurts out, “I went to your high school.”

I quirk an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah! I mean, you were- you were gone by the time I started high school, but yeah! I was a freshman when the first Followers album came out. I wore out my copy so quickly.” He chuckles to himself, sounding embarrassed to be telling me this. “And then, then when _Boneless_ came out and you were on TV and magazines and the radio, you became such a legend back home. Mr. Yarrow, the music teacher, told me he used to give you guitar lessons and –”

I snort. I vaguely remember the music teacher of my high school – vaguely, vaguely, I never cared about an education – and he certainly never even knew I played guitar. I taught myself. Mrs. Roscoe taught me the basics of music, and I picked it up from there.

Another guy trying to get a piece of the fame, flat out lying about knowing me.

“Anyway. You made me want to play guitar in the first place,” Ian says sheepishly. He shivers from the cold but smiles, keeping eye contact. There’s nothing I can really say to a comment like that. ‘Thanks’ or ‘Well, how’s that treated you’?

“Explains why you kept falling on your ass. Not much ice skating in Nevada.”

“No,” he laughs shyly, his cheeks turning pink. I turn back to look at the skaters, eyes flying over the masses until I see Brendon and Shane again. My stomach drops at the sight of him and then curls up angrily at the sight of them.

Ian mumbles something about getting a hot chocolate from the stall by the ice rink, and I go with him to his surprise. Rather that than watch super couple on ice or think of the way my skin flared up from having Brendon so close to me. It got to him too. It must have.

Ian doesn’t have a stutter and neither is he retarded. He’s just nervous, full on panicking that I’m sipping hot chocolate with him – mine flavoured with whiskey, I go nowhere without my flask – but now his silence has turned into a stream of consciousness rant. He is speaking ten miles a minute, about New York and music and shoes and apple varieties, and then he mentions Brendon, and when I express interest, he seems to settle on that topic, delighted to get a reaction out of me. “No, yeah, no,” he says. “We met at a club. A, um, special club.” An underground gay club. “We were both kind of bored –” Not on drugs, then. “– and he was with a friend who hooked up with my friend –” Everyone fucking everyone, but no, not Brendon who’s madly in love, “– and then we started talking about music –” Ian must have declared his admiration of me within the first two minutes, at least, “– and we had so much in common, man.” Previously mentioned admiration not included. “The music’s good. Brendon’s really talented.”

“How often do you play?”

“When we can, you know. We were meant to play at an open mic night tomorrow, but Brendon’s working so we had to cancel.” He shrugs apologetically. “We’re not, like, real musicians. Like you. Or anything.” He seems terrified that I’ll think he’s comparing himself to me.

“Who’s playing tomorrow, then?” I ask, and when Ian blinks, I add, “Brendon. Whose gig is he organising tomorrow?”

“Oh! Right. No, it isn’t to do with his internship, he’s just working at the restaurant. Though last month Brendon was the promoter’s representative for this one band, you might’ve heard of them, I was really jealous, he –”

“Come again?” I say very slowly to make sure I’m hearing this right.

Ian’s on the same page with me, happy to be telling me something I don’t know. He looks delighted. “Bren’s got an internship with the promotion company. Unpaid and stuff, three days a week. It was meant to be four days, but he had to cut down and take up more shifts at the restaurant because at least that pays. I mean, Shane switched from full-time to part-time to pursue his art more, and Brendon’s kind of stressed about being the one supporting them both. But waiting tables isn’t too bad, you know? And it’s for Shane’s career.” Ian takes a long sip of his hot chocolate. “It’s a sacrifice.” Then, “Man, it’s cold out here.” Then, “Oh. Uh. I mean – They’re together. Uh. Like. They’re gay. Um.”

“I know.”

Ian’s not one for small talk.

He’s said enough, though.

* * *

No one turns down my sudden offer to buy everyone dinner. They’ve been skating in the cold, what could be better than having a nice, warm meal right now? Especially on me, too. And we don’t head out to any of the cosy, crammed and cheap family run restaurants in The Village. I ask Keltie to name the most expensive restaurant close to us, and so we arrive to a busy restaurant with our entourage of nine people. We’re instantly escorted to a private cabinet when the floor manager recognises me. We’re all underdressed, our lifestyles imprinted on our faces – except for the girls, they always look good – but the royal treatment doesn’t reflect the way we look at all. I ruffle my hair to get snowflakes out and help myself to sit at the end of the table. Brendon sits at the far end with Shane, though Shane initially tries to sit closer to me. Shane’s already told me five times how generous I’m being to people that I barely know. I replied that I support the arts.

“Order whatever you want,” I say dismissively.

I manage to pin the night on Patrick, proposing a toast out of nowhere, saying that he’s signed the contract, he’s a Whiskey now whether he likes it or not, and that I look forward to our professional relationship, and that we’re here celebrating and how nice it is that some of Patrick’s friends were able to come too. Truthfully, though, it seems Patrick is friends with Ian and only vaguely knows Brendon and Shane. Either way, Patrick is flustered.

We’re not here for Patrick, however. Earlier today, I wanted to see Brendon fall on his ass before leaving him to his idyllic life with Shane.

Except that Brendon lied.

Oh sure, his life is so fucking amazing. He’s so moved on. He’s so living the American dream with his music contacts and hot photographer boyfriend.

What a fucking liar.

I don’t try making eye contact or engaging Brendon in conversation. I talk to Gabe sitting next to me, my righthand man, and Keltie on my other side as my queen. And from this throne I’ll judge the rest of the people in the cabinet as I sip on wine, smoke cigarettes, take the guests in slowly and calmly with hawk-like attention.

After everyone’s eaten, we remain talking and drinking, and finally Brendon stands up and exits the cabinet – _finally_ – and I stub my cigarette against my plate next to the barely eaten risotto. “Excuse me,” I say, and Gabe grins like he knows. He does, bits and pieces. Not everything. Not even close.

Brendon’s taking a piss by one of the urinals when I enter the men’s toilets. He’s got his back to me, unaware of my presence. He’s been drinking too much wine. I’ve been paying attention to that. It might work in my favour.

Brendon turns around after he’s done, flinching, hands on the zipper of his jeans. I remain quiet. “Hi,” he says, awkward and blunt, the word just hanging in the air. He heads for the sinks. He starts washing his hands, and I look at us in the mirror – me with my back leaning against the wall next to the door, him with his shoulders tensed up. He glances up, our eyes meeting in the mirror. “Did you want something?”

“You’re a liar.”

He looks too surprised for it to be an authentic reaction. “Don’t know what you mean.”

“It’s a nasty habit. You should do something about it.” He keeps up his confused expression as he shakes his hands to dry them. “It’s a waste of your talent, you know. Waiting tables.”

He stops a little then, ducking his head so that the reflection no longer lets me see his face. He turns around, looking defiant. “I didn’t lie.” When I scoff, he fiercely counters, “Okay, I might have embellished the truth a little, but I hardly lied.”

“Do you really care what I think?”

“No.”

“See, I told you it’d become a habit.”

He shoots me a glare, crossing his arms over his chest. This time, I look down – I’m not trying to pick a fight. He just lied when he didn’t have to, when he could have just said how it was. I had my share of shit jobs back in the day. I get it.

“Ian just said some things, and –”

“Fucking Ian,” Brendon mumbles bitterly, but the kid shouldn’t take the blame for telling me the truth.

“Look, you shouldn’t be waiting tables. We both know that. And your so-called friends seem to lap it up, but I’m here to tell you they’re full of shit. Shane’s mediocre at best. And what about your art? What about that? You’re sacrificing your talent to help someone who doesn’t have half of it.” He opens his mouth to retaliate, but I say, “No, you listen to me. When you were growing up and you pictured your life, were you in the leading role? Were you? Or was this your goal, being the sidekick in someone else’s dream?” Brendon’s jaw tightens, and he looks down. He knows I’m right. He _must_ know that whatever he’s doing with his life right now is a waste of time. Sure, Shane might get somewhere, but Brendon shouldn’t have to enslave himself to promote mediocrity.

“You wouldn’t get it. You _don’t_ get it. We’re a team, Shane and I. We work together,” he informs me. Yeah, because that works. He should ask Sonny and Cher. “Love is about sacrifice,” he says.

“No. It’s not.” He looks lost momentarily, and my hands twitch by my sides, but I don’t let myself go over to literally shake some sense into him. He’s still got so much to learn. Instead, I sigh. “Do you need money?”

“What?”

“If you need money, all you got to do is ask.”

I don’t get the reaction I’m expecting. At all.

“What the _fuck_?” he ask quietly, every syllable oozing venom. “I don’t- I don’t want your money! _We_ don’t need your money. God!”

He moves to get past me to the door, but I block him. “Why are you pissed off at me? I’m being _nice_.”

“Like you were ever nice,” he retorts, the words cutting deeper than they should. “What are you doing, Ryan? Dazzling us with your wealth and fame? I have no idea what kind of a game you’re playing here, but I love Shane, and I don’t –” He looks over my shoulder, still defiant. That’s him. He’ll go down fighting. “I’m not taking your money.”

“God, you’re still too proud for your own good.”

“Yeah, maybe. Maybe I’m just a waiter at a shitty Italian restaurant, slaving away while you roll around in money with your semi-famous friends, but I’ve got more dignity than the rest of you combined. You know what you have in there?” he asks, motioning at the door. “A group of yes men and a few adoring fans, all looking at you like god: Patrick, Gabe, Keltie, Ian –”

“Shane.”

His jaw sets tight. “Yeah. Shane too. So what’s the deal? You need them to feel better about yourself? Extend charity, show just what an amazing guy you are? I think that’s what it is. But don’t act shocked if I’m not joining their ranks, if you can’t bribe me. I’m not a beggar, and I need nothing from you.”

It sounds rehearsed, like he’s prepared this rant, probably over the course of the past few hours. What he thinks about my life.

He tries to get past me again, but I take a hold of his arm, stopping him by my side. I take in a deep breath and whisper, “Bren, come on.” He’s overreacting.

He looks down, refusing to look at me. It’s not like I’m asking him to take a thousand bucks, but whatever might be helpful. Fifty bucks. A hundred. Five hundred. And so what they’re all a bunch of yes men? Does he think I don’t know that?

“Fuck off,” he hisses, but it doesn’t sound too sure. He walks out of the bathroom, door swinging. I forgot the temperament he had. Amazing in bed, a pain in the ass otherwise.

I take a leak before joining my party, and on my way in, I ask Shane to swap seats with Gabe. Shane’s standing up before I can even finish the sentence, and Brendon looks alarmed but we both know he can’t say anything about it.

Cassie is talking about Pilates again – she keeps saying that it will be huge someday, really, _someday_ all of America will be doing it. I think it’s likelier that Americans magically stop masturbating. Keltie’s intrigued, however – she always is – and the women are deep in conversation when Shane sits down next to me, a half-finished red wine glass in his hands. I pour it full and ask him to tell me about his work. He instantly does, like I’ve asked that one question he can spend forever talking about.

I’m not entirely sure of my agenda until I am. Patrick, Ian and Gabe are talking amongst themselves, Gabe befriending strangers the way that only he can, and Patrick asks a horrified, “How can you say that _Eat the Document_ was a masterpiece compared to _Dont Look Back_?” and Gabe replies with a deep intake of air, “Well –”

Brendon is talking to Jon, and both men look uneasy. Jon asks something; Brendon shrugs and bites on his lower lip. He’s breathtaking. Shane talks about a short film he once made.

Vicky needs a bang. Something I haven’t done yet. Something to reintroduce me to the public.

“Shane,” I say, interrupting him. “I want you to film a documentary of me and the guys.”

Shane’s mouth remains hanging open, but the rest of the table keep talking as the universe keeps spinning and the puzzle pieces start coming together.

Brendon is nervously shredding a napkin into bits of fluff. He doesn’t have to worry. I’ve got it from here.


	4. Wolf’s Teeth

“Wow,” Shane breathes out, fidgeting as the elevator doors close behind us. “Oh, wow,” he adds, clutching the camera around his neck with white knuckles.

Jon grins lopsidedly, lifting a loose wrist, bringing the bottle of JD to his lips. Old No.7, Tennessee Whiskey. He passes it onto Gabe.

Gabe has never been in a successful band, unlike Jon and me, but he still doesn’t get dazed in the face of stardom. Jon doesn’t get recognised much and he was never overly famous, but he’s used to the whirlwind and he’s used to meeting big names. Shane isn’t. We only bumped into Jerry in the lobby just now – I wonder what he’s doing in New York – and The Whiskeys and I have moved on with our lives, whereas Shane can’t seem to recover. He’s pale, looking around with big, unnerved eyes.

“So it’s. It’s a party with,” Shane says. Then he reverts to, “Fuck, that was Jerry Garcia.” He’s already said it five times. And then Shane looks at me like he wants to add ‘Fuck, I’m hanging out with Ryan Ross. Fuck, fuck, fuck.’

Gabe says, “Relax, Shaney! Relax! Take a slug!”

“Go on,” Jon beckons with a laidback air that’s not often seen.

Jon’s got a vision of this music. He knows where we’re heading, what he wants from me, what he expects from me, and it’s thanks to him that this attempt at making music hasn’t proved to be a failure. Even he knows when to let go, however, when not to frown upon Gabe’s endless antics and the shit that he puts me up to, usually unproductive for the cause of the album we’re trying to do. Lou Reed’s party is one of them.

“I shouldn’t. I’m working,” Shane says. He looks like he’s been dragged out of his comfort zone. Brendon always acted like he owned the room he walked into – he was charming everyone from David Bowie to me. Shane has none of that charisma. What the hell brought these two together, I’ll never know.

I say, “You’re learning how you’ll be working. Take a sip.”

Shane eyes the bottle that Jon’s offering, and in the face of peer pressure – or, rather, my use of the imperative – he takes the bottle and brings it to his lips.

It’s a Saturday night. When Brendon gets back home to their apartment after an exhausting shift at the restaurant, his boyfriend will be out on the town with me. Shane will not be home, waiting. Instead, he’ll be receiving a short introduction to rock ‘n roll by the one guy Brendon probably doesn’t want around him.

Brendon doesn’t have to worry. I won’t spill out his secrets, ask Shane if Brendon’s come still tastes the same. My mouth’s locked, and I threw away the key a long time ago, threw it behind me on Castro Street and didn’t turn to look back.

Pretended I didn’t look back.

We get to the right floor, and the elevator doors open. I readjust my coat.

“Ryan,” Gabe says, and I nod silently and let him walk out first. It was never a conscious decision on my part or Gabe’s, but it’s still there: Gabe as an unofficial bodyguard. It’s evolved as we’ve been attending parties and causing riots. He’s not much of a bodyguard, really, since he’s primarily my bandmate, present to drink and fuck and party, and sometimes, I don’t see him for half the night, but he always keeps an eye out. Jon would be a lot better at keeping me safe if only he expressed the desire to follow me up and down Manhattan night after night, but he’s been domesticated. Even if he’s with us now, he has plans to be home at five AM latest, snuggling up to Cassie.

Point is that Gabe knows people. I trust his judge of character fully, and he sees a troublemaker a mile away. Provided he’s not too stoned or drunk, he is able to get me out of awkward situations swiftly and efficiently. This includes him doing a pre-emptive sweep of clubs and bars and, this time, the party.

Shane looks confused by the system when Jon and Gabe enter the apartment that the noise is coming from, but I wander to the end of the hallway, getting out a cigarette and looking through the window, down twenty floors and onto a road littered with the roofs of yellow taxis.

“Are we not going in?” Shane asks me in confusion, camera hanging around his neck. I look at him carefully, taking in his worn out leather jacket. He’s got brown hair hanging in front of his eyes. He’s handsome but not stunning. He’s smart but not intelligent. He’s got depth but not insight.

I will be seeing a lot of Shane now. Doesn’t mean I ever get to see Brendon, just his supposed better half. Maybe I can be masochistic.

“No rush,” I say, and Shane lifts the camera and snaps a picture of me in the hallway, smoking slowly.

Behind him, Gabe pokes his head out. “Ry,” he says simply, but it’s enough. Last month, I almost walked into a party Joe was attending while visiting New York. We can’t have that. No, we can’t have that at all.

“Keep your head on there, kid, and follow me,” I say, knowing full well that Shane is older than me. He only nods, though, of course he does. It’s only a music elite party, and he’s shitting himself. Glad Patrick didn’t come because arriving with two newbies would be too much for me to put up with.

The apartment is swamped with the members of the New York scene, walls and floor barely visible because people have taken over every nook and crook, some holding beers, some wine bottles, some whisky bottles. The smell of sweat, grass and cigarettes is overwhelming, and I slip into the crowd and the world of dimmed lights like a criminal, shoulders slumped on hoping no one notices.

Of course everyone notices.

Gabe is giving us the grand tour, pointing left and right with, “And there’s the powder room,” and I nod without looking, but Shane murmurs “Shit” behind me, and I assume that he looked in and realised that it’s a different type of powder that the people present are after.

These days everyone knows not to trust a guy who doesn’t take anything. There really isn’t anything dodgier than that.

“Oh,” Gabe then says, stopping quickly and peering at Shane behind me. “That’s one thing Vicky mentioned, right? When you do your documentary thing.”

“Yeah,” Shane says, sounding unnerved. “No footage of drug use.”

Gabe grins. “Good luck with that.”

We end up in a bedroom after having paid our respects to the host. Lou seemed surprised that I came. I’m not a regular. I’m more at home amongst the unknown, struggling artists than I am with these rockers, groupies and hangers on. Not a party animal. Not something to be put on display. I had to come tonight, though. Because of Shane. Because if he weren’t here, he’d be at home, and I don’t like the scenarios that I see when I close my eyes.

The bedroom has been adopted as an extension of the living room in lack of space, Jon and Shane sitting on the edge of the bed while I occupy the old, bulky armchair in the corner. Gabe leans against the wall next to me, acting like a surprisingly loyal watchdog. He’ll be gone the second he spots a pretty skirt. Jon and Gabe talk, laughing and joking. Shane keeps looking around with big eyes. There’s a steady flow of guests into the room now that we’re here, the bedroom becoming even more packed than it was when we entered.

A girl is talking at me with big, shiny eyes when I beckon Shane over with a single finger. He obeys instantly, shoulders tense as he walks over. “Sit down,” I tell him, and someone quickly offers him a chair. Shane pushes that stupid, incessantly flopping hair from his forehead as he sits close to me, leaning over to make sure he hears me in the noise of the party. I ignore the ‘Hey, Ryan’s from people I don’t know and ask, “You okay, Shane?”

“Yeah. Sure. Of course.” He nods excessively and then flashes a quick smile. “I used to live in the Castro District in San Francisco. I’ve seen parties.”

Oh. So they met in the cesspool of depravity itself. Romantic.

“Fag parties aren’t the same as rock parties,” I correct him, hoping to insult him because he’s in a position where he has to put up with it. But then he’d tell Brendon that I acted like an asshole, and then Brendon would –

Shane doesn’t seem insulted, though, he just nods in an ain’t that the truth kind of way. He then focuses his gaze to the doorway, lifts his camera and snaps a picture. Whatever was there is gone by the time I look over. “Wasting film,” he mumbles sheepishly when he lowers the camera, like he acted out on impulse and now regrets it. “Expensive.”

“Isn’t that gonna be paid for?” I ask. Vicky looked slightly stressed, though pleased, when I told her of Shane doing a documentary of the band. The Beatles made fucking nonsensical movies – I can most certainly get people to pay to see me in the studio and on the road. It’s that extra something that Vicky was looking for, ideal for those who constantly complain that I’m such an elusive figure, that I don’t seem to be comfortable with my fame. Now they can see behind the scenes and pry on my life like they seem to dream of doing.

Shane was in a meeting with Vicky and her lawyers for practically an entire day. Again, Vicky noted that she could have gotten this or that guy to do this for me, someone already famous, someone with more experience, but I wanted Shane. At least he’s not expecting to be paid as much as those other guys.

Shane was dazed according to Vicky, and Shane still is. He frowns and then laughs a confused, “Oh. Yeah. I guess that film rolls are paid for.” He looks embarrassed and mumbles, “It’s all a bit confusing. There’s an accountant that I need to send receipts to and there’s a budget that Vicky insists that I stick to, and it’s just – But I mean. I can do it. I’ve done documentaries, those just... consisted of interviews and things. Easier to organise than this.”

“That’s why I asked you to come along tonight. So that when you do start working on the actual documentary, you’re comfortable working in this environment,” I explain and motion around the crowded, loud room.

“I only get one interview per crew member,” Shane then says, sounding worried. “Would you want to do that before or after the tour? When _is_ the tour? When are you going to the studio? When’s the album coming out?”

“Shane!” Gabe laughs from beside me. Although Gabe knows that Shane is fucking a guy I used to fuck and that I’m not entirely happy with that, Gabe seems to genuinely like Shane. In fact, Shane seems to get along with all the guys. Shane is a likeable guy. There’s nothing wrong with him except for the list of two hundred and thirty-five items that I keep a log of in my head.

“What?” Shane asks, brows furrowing.

“You gotta relax! We go to the studio when we go to the studio! We tour when we tour! It’ll happen!” Gabe wipes his nose with the back of his hand and shivers. I missed him snorting what’s undoubtedly gone up his nostrils now. So much for the protection he might’ve been able to give me. “Man,” Gabe says, looking around. “Tequila. This party needs tequila.”

He heads out of the room, presumably to find just that.

“Vicky did tell you that I get to say what goes onto that documentary, right?” I ask, and Shane nods. He doesn’t even look like he’s got a problem with it. Shane will edit and re-edit that documentary until I give it my seal of approval. I don’t care what’s in it. I only know what I don’t want to be in it. It’s been a long time since I’ve toured, but if next spring I find myself hyperventilating in backstage toilets, Shane cannot film that for the world to see. We’re not recording history – we’re compiling a product to sell. At least Pete taught me that much.

“I’ve got ideas,” Shane then says. “I’d love to brainstorm with you sometime, to see what you’ve got in mind. I’d, uh – Yeah, I’d love that, Ryan. If that’s okay with you. If you’ve got time. I know you’re busy, of course I know that. I’m busy too, but I can change my timetable around it.”

“You haven’t quit at Eric’s, have you? Eric would be damn pissed off at me for that.”

“No, no,” Shane says quickly. “Juggling the record store job with my photography, a few commissions and now this. Hardly have time to sleep.”

I lean back in my chair, taking in a deep breath. “Brendon’s okay with that?”

“Oh yeah. He’s great like that. He’s doing a mic night this week, and I was gonna go see him and, you know, show support, but now I’ve got a meeting at the gallery and I had to cancel, and –” He stops to catch his breath, face flashing with something like the pain evoked by an unpleasant memory. Like a fight or an argument. But then he smiles and that adoration is there. “Brendon gets it, though. He really does. Don’t know where I’d be without him.” He looks around the room, at the exhibition or movie that we’re watching, something surreal and intangible. He chuckles and turns to me. “Guess this was the average night on your Followers tour, right?”

I let my eyes wash over the people indifferently, the latest fashion that’s covering their limbs, the latest bands that are leaving their lips, the latest drugs that are circling in their veins. “Sometimes,” I admit. “Just with a bit more sweat.” I think back to one of the early parties on that tour, Brendon doing coke, Brendon hooking up with that anonymous guy, Brendon pressed to the wall and making out with him... There was something so untamed about him. Wild. Uncontrollable. Now he’s chained down by the guy sitting next to me. Yeah, I’d take Shane back home to meet my family if I had one, if fag relationships counted as real ones. Shane’s the kind of guy that parents would love. If Brendon’s parents hadn’t disowned their son, I could see Shane right there, in the haven of Mormonism, saying, ‘I’d love a second helping of mashed potatoes, Mrs. Urie! Thank you!’

Shane would fit in there better than Brendon ever could. I know that. Deep down Brendon knows that. Shane doesn’t.

“The Followers parties were crazier than this,” I say. “Brendon loved those parties.”

“I can’t picture that,” Shane laughs, sounding amused. “He’s not much of a party person.”

“Was when I knew him.” Although my tone is slightly challenging, Shane doesn’t contradict me or say that, well, he probably knows Brendon better than I do. Maybe. But I know who he was. “So when did you two meet?” I ask, going against my instincts, like I desperately want him to add insult to injury.

Shane looks thoughtful, his mouth moving with no sound coming out, like he’s adding it up in his head. “We got together early ’75, but I met him a few months before that, so... we must have met two or so years ago. He was working in a Castro bar.” Shane smiles this little smile only lovers can smile, like his mind is suddenly filled with memories only he and Brendon share. Memories expanding over two years. That’s a lot of memories. That’s a lot of time spent in each other’s exclusive company. That’s a lot of mornings waking up together.

“You met a few months after we finished the tour, then,” I say. I must have been... I must have been throwing Jac’s clothes out of the window and packing for London myself. I was fine. I was on top of the world. I wasn’t running away from anything. I was running towards.

“Yeah, must have been,” Shane agrees. “God, when he told me he’d been on that tour with you guys, my first thought was that he must have been on that bus when it crashed.” Genuine concern is heavy in his tone, and it suddenly sinks into me like wolf’s teeth. He loves Brendon. Probably. Most likely. Two years. You don’t stick around someone for that long if you don’t love them. And Brendon said it too, straight to my face, that he loves Shane, but it’s the way you love your pet dog. Not the way you Love someone. Who needs love, anyway? It just complicates otherwise perfectly functioning relationships. Look at Jac and me. We were fine without it.

“He wasn’t on tour with us anymore at that point,” I say roughly. He chose to stay behind in San Francisco. He quit. For nothing. A stupid fight. A misunderstanding.

Shane smiles. “Lucky, right?”

“It was lucky.”

Shane doesn’t even know how heavily edited the version he’s gotten is.

I stub my cigarette into the ashtray someone holds out for me and regret having asked Shane to come along with us at all.

“You broke your arm, right?” Shane now asks. I startle and glance at him briefly before I nod and wrap my arms around my middle. “Which arm?” he asks, sounding curious, examining me. My heart is suddenly beating fast, feeling irregular somehow. I drop my gaze. Shane doesn’t back off at all. “What’s Spencer up to these days? He’s such an amazing drummer.”

I clear my throat. “Don’t know.”

“You don’t know? But surely you –”

“Shane,” Jon says, in this serious tone that seems to convey whatever Jon intended it to. In my peripheral vision, Shane looks down to his lap. Jon is still sitting on the bed across from us. He has spent his time talking to people, being the most appealing member of The Whiskeys to the general public. Gabe’s too crazy while Patrick is too awkward. Jon’s solid. Jon clearly picked up on the conversation we were having and has now silenced Shane. I could signal Shane to leave with a flick of my wrist, have someone else take his place, engage them in conversation instead, but I don’t.

“The documentary,” I say after a considerable silence, and Shane flinches, looking up quickly. “It’s about this band. These guys.”

“Yeah. Of course. You got it.” Breathless. Reassuring. When I say nothing more, he stands up, clutching his camera like a shield of armour. “I’ll go snap some more shots. Get a feel for it all, like you told me to. If that’s alright.”

“Go for it,” I say, and he flashes a nervous smile at me before he snakes out of the room. Escaping. Running for it. He better not tell Brendon.

Shane’s seat is instantly occupied. There seems to be an unofficial queue to come sit next to me, exchange a few words. “Ryan, man, I’ve always wanted to ask if _Six in the Morning_ is about Nam, because it is, right? It’s about war, man, it’s –”

I beckon Jon over, and he gets up, leaning close to hear me, and I raise my voice above the background noise. “Shane can stay, but I don’t want to see him again tonight.”

Gabe might be a good bodyguard, accomplice and all of it, but when he’s fucked and out of it, Jon isn’t bad at the job either. It’s just that Jon would rather not take on the responsibility whereas Gabe feels like it validates him somehow.

Jon looks after Shane briefly. “Sure.” He gives my shoulder a brief squeeze and follows the filmmaker out of the room.

I lean into the chair, not sure what it’s all for. Show Shane what he’s missing, show him what Brendon was once a part of. Throw Shane off his game. Hope he gets fucked up and cheats on his partner with disastrous consequences.

Brendon must have been furious about the documentary. I wouldn’t know and Shane hasn’t said anything about it, but Brendon must be pissed off. That Shane now works for me. That the money that buys their bread will be coming from me.

Shane knows a good deal when he sees it, but it’s not enough to have wooed half of the duo. Winning Shane over won’t be enough to... God, Brendon’s such a stubborn asshole.

Someone asks me if I’ve ever considered writing a book.

* * *

Keltie’s busy performing at the birthday party of some rich kid whose daddy is a millionaire and who promised The Rockettes for him. I think the kid is turning seventeen. Good wank off material right there: a row of scantily-clad women dancing for him. Keltie said she’d go back to her place from there and meet me in the morning. Bring croissants.

She’s far away from this basement bar on 4th Street. Anyone I’ve ever known is far away from this bar, and though I’ve prowled these streets far and wide, I’ve never been here. The place has got poor lighting, the capacity of a hundred and fifty max but it’s still half empty, while concrete pillars hold the ceiling up. The air is heavy with smoke, and music is coming from the stage in steady waves. I inhale sharply. I’m late.

I pull the brim of my hat over my eyes, self-conscious as I go up to the bar where the idle bartender looks at me expectantly. My fingers dance over the sticky counter. “A whiskey.”

The bartender looks over his shoulder at the shelves of bottles with affluent disinterest. “Will Johnnie Walker do?”

“Always,” I say with a small smile. We started a new song yesterday. One of the best ones yet. I’m always up for spending time with Mr. Walker. “No ice.”

I get ice, anyway.

I find a round corner table with a scratched surface and a moist beer mat. I’m too far back to be seen in this light – I haven’t spent the majority of my adult life on stages to not know that. A group of a few dozen people are formed into a mass before the stage, looking up at the two performers. The spectators are looking at the band, at each other, at their drinks, shifting restlessly like they’re not sure what their purpose is. I don’t hear much except for the last few chords of the song. Unsure cheering sounds, some stray claps. Someone yells a drunken “YEAH!”

Brendon steps closer to his microphone, a soft smile on his lips. “Yeah right back at you.”

I stare. He’s full of charisma. He’s practically radiating it.

The crazy kid – Ian – lifts a hand as if to say thank you and clutches onto his guitar nervously. There probably have been a few performances already. It’s past eleven, so it’s not an all bad timeslot that they’ve been given. Still, it’s a Tuesday night and the place is hardly the centre of rock ‘n roll, and there will definitely be a few more guys after Brendon’s set.

I’ve seen Brendon on stage too many times to count: skin glistening with sweat, pupils dilated from the buzz, cheeks rosy, lips parted in some indistinguishable shout. The crowd was always louder than anything else. I’ve seen him play around with Brent’s basses and keyboards, Joe’s guitars, my guitars, Spencer’s drums. I’ve heard him jokingly singing _Crocodile Rock_ during soundcheck, but that’s all mockery, a dress rehearsal compared to this. His own music. His own words. I know how big of a deal that is, but Brendon isn’t nervous. It’s a shitty bar, a shitty crowd, but he smiles easily like he’s just won the lottery. If he’s nervous, not a trace of it is visible on his features. He’s having a great time up there.

“You good?” Brendon asks Ian, who is now switching the guitar to a bass, and Brendon takes the guitar from him, putting down the twelve-string he was using when I walked in. Ian nods, brown hair falling out of place. “Alright,” Brendon says, the microphone catching his voice and carrying it across the room. He eyes the guitar neck as he places his fingers on the strings. He’s dressed in tight, blue jeans with a big buckled belt, a red and white chequered dress-shirt that’s three buttons undone, a white undershirt visible. He looks comfortable on stage, comfortable as he says “a one, a two – a one, two, three, four” and kicks into the new song.

The music is stripped down – has to be with just guitar and bass – but it’s still recognisable somehow. It’s not noise. Melodies are clear, and Brendon’s vocals are smooth at parts, then rough out of nowhere. He has a fantastic vocal range and knows it and is using it. Good. You should always play to your strengths.

Girls in the crowd sway to the music, someone has gotten out a lighter as a joke. I’m not laughing. Brendon closes his eyes as he launches into the chorus. The lyrics are dreamlike, full of strange visions that I cannot decrypt. It could be about love or life or death or his morning cereal. Whatever it is, Brendon sings it with conviction, in a voice that compels me to listen. It’s good music. I don’t have to flatter him. I don’t have to like the music. If it were bad, I’d tell him the truth, and then I’d tell him how to make it better.

A few times during the performance, looking at him gets too much, and then I drop my gaze and stare into my emptying glass. Had a few drinks at home before leaving. Some courage. The phone kept ringing as I got ready. Not sure who it was. Gabe, Jon, Eric, Patrick, Greta, Vicky. Could have been anyone. It’s easy slipping into the night, saying you were in one place when you were at another. The city’s too big for anyone to really know, and no one is going to check up on your facts. No one could give you the truth, anyway. Maybe someone saw me. They don’t really remember.

When Brendon says that it’s their last song, I look up again and practically don’t blink for the three minutes that the song lasts. It’s a more upbeat song, and the refrain gets stuck in my head, echoing from my left ear to my right even after they leave the stage, waving at the half-empty room, Ian mumbling, “Thanks so much!” to Brendon’s microphone.

It’s not much of a show, but the room still relaxes after they’re gone. Like they can now focus on something other than Brendon, who had the room eating out of the palm of his hand the few times that the crowd stopped to properly pay attention.

I get up and head back to the bar with my empty glass. “Fill her up,” I instruct. “No ice.” I get ice again.

When I turn around to face the room, Brendon and Ian have come out, both with two gig bags for their instruments. They leave them by a table and start chatting to the people that have surrounded them. The next performer, a girl in her twenties, is getting ready onstage. Brendon laughs at something that an older guy is saying to him, nodding quickly, brushing brown hair to the side. His lips are stretched wide into a smile. I bring the glass to my lips calmly. Not so calmly.

I head over when Brendon separates himself from the masses, getting a capo out of his back pocket and sliding it into one of the pockets of the gig bag. “That was pretty good,” I say to his back.

Brendon instantly turns to the sound of my voice as if to thank me for my opinion, but then he sees me. He pales, maybe, I can’t really tell from the lights, but everything about him certainly looks colourless. His eyebrows lift in surprise, but then confusion pulls them down, and then he settles on an almost neutral expression. It’s stony, what it is. So I offended him. So I hired his boyfriend to work for me. But I’m here now.

“I mean,” I continue, “you have to work harder than that to get panties thrown on stage, but it’s a start.”

He stays silent for unnervingly long, but then seems to kick into motion. “Yeah. Probably.” His smile isn’t a smile, but his lips purse together icily. “Let me guess. You walked by perchance and just had the random urge to come in for a drink and lo and behold –”

“Shane told me,” I say, cutting him off, and then I look around the room as if to see his worse half. I know he’s not present. Brendon most likely knows that I know. “Guess your boyfriend’s too busy to come see you,” I conclude. There’s only a hint of mockery in my tone, but come on. Shane’s playing Picasso left and right, too busy to come see this? “I happened to have time,” I then explain. “Nothing good on TV or the radio.”

He narrows his eyes at me, and I can’t seem to have the balls to look him in the eye. He shifts restlessly. “And where’s the rest of the Ross party?” Now it’s his turn to sound mocking. He looks around like expecting to see The Whiskeys or someone else, but when he doesn’t see them, his eyes land on me again.

“It’s just me,” I say. The tight set of his jaw loosens a little, and he looks confused, like he’s lost ground or the one angry thought he was clinging onto. “I’m sorry about last week, by the way,” I say, forcing the words out. “Gabe’s always asking for money. I meant nothing by it.”

“You meant something by it.”

“Yeah, well.” I scratch my neck, feeling uncomfortable. “You didn’t want my help, and when anything that’s something becomes nothing, then that’s all it is.”

Ian now appears by Brendon’s side. “Ryan!” He’s grinning wide, eyes flying over my features too damn fast. He’s covered in slight sweat, hardly from the stage, though, and – Oh. Well, he’s on something. Wasn’t five minutes ago, I’m relatively sure, and Brendon appears to be observing the same thing, that his friend has popped something since they got off stage. “You saw us play?” Ian asks, blinking too much, pushing frizzy curls out of the way. I only nod, and he grins twice as much. “Fuck! Fuck, that’s far out!” He breathes out. “Did you dig it?” I do a modest nod after having given it some thought, and again he seems delighted. “You did! Fuck, man. Fuck.”

“There’s potential.”

“Potential! Fuck! Potential, Bren!” he enthuses. “So glad I didn’t see you in the crowd, I would’ve shat myself otherwise!” He laughs hysterically. Brendon shoots him a glare that he misses completely. I don’t really have a comeback for that either. Ian keeps gazing at me, reminding me of Greta when she’s lost in her own world. “You look really good tonight,” he then announces, letting his eyes fly over my brown corduroy suit and then back to my face. “Really sexy.” His cheeks flush red. “I don’t know why I said that,” he mumbles nervously. He bites on his bottom lip shyly.

“Let me buy you a drink,” I offer, and Ian looks flustered through his drugged haze.

“Rum and coke?”

“You got it,” I nod, then look at Brendon. “Anything for you?”

Brendon looks like he has no idea what to do, eyes flying between Ian and me, and then his shoulders slump slightly. “Just some water,” he says. It sounds like defeat.

Brendon goes to give their instruments to a friend of theirs as Ian and I go to the bar. Ian explains that they keep their guitars with this guy who lives in The Village, making it easier for them to practise and perform, not having to drag their instruments from Brooklyn. Brendon’s got some old acoustic at his place that he can practise with. Ian goes into great detail about it.

Brendon’s sitting by the same corner table that I occupied before, and he doesn’t look at me when I sit down opposite him and place the glass of water in front of him. He’s smoking, flicking the tip above the ashtray. Ian sits down next to me and says, “I’d love some tips from you, man. About being a star and stage performance and all that.”

“That could take all night,” I say. I’m joking, but Ian doesn’t get it.

“Let’s hope not,” Brendon says, now leaning back in his chair. He takes a drag, cheeks hollowing, He seems to be looking at my hands on the table rather than my face. “Can’t stay long. My shift starts at noon.” Our eyes meet briefly. He knows what I think about that. I’ve said my piece. Ian only nods like yeah, business as usual. His friends aren’t even real friends.

Ian does most of the talking, buzzing, pupils blown, sweating, explaining with his hands. Brendon keeps smoking, nodding in agreement on the rare times that Ian makes a good point on music as the expression of the soul. I mostly just look at Brendon, who tries not to notice. I try not to look at him too much. He’s just beautiful. That’s all. Two locks of hair keep falling in front of his chocolate brown eyes. He’s got stubble that he undoubtedly has to shave off before work, the stubble grown more on his upper lip. He could grow a moustache if he felt like it. It’d be trendy for one thing. I’ve only kissed him clean shaven or with stubble, never with anything more. I’ve never properly kissed bearded men at all. It’d leave no room for pretending not to know that it’s not a woman. Brendon never did leave any room, anyway, despite his hips that I loved grabbing onto when we fucked. I loved all of it: his calloused fingertips, protruding hipbones, the hair on his legs and arms, his thick cock and how tight the skin of his balls was when he was really fucking hard. The scent of his sex. I wonder if he still smells the same.

“Oh, I saw someone!” Ian announces, eyes gleaming as he stops what has been a soliloquy for the past four minutes. “I’ll be right back.” He gets up and vanishes into the crowd, calling out someone’s name.

With Ian no longer distracting us, Brendon looks even more restless. The silence lingers on.

“So,” I say, and Brendon does this little ‘yeah’ shrug, lips pursed tight as he lifts his glass of water.

He then places it down carefully, thumb rubbing the glass’s rim. “Shane’s really excited about the documentary.”

“We all are.”

“He thinks you’re strange.”

“Strange?” I repeat, and Brendon nods. Shane does seem intimidated by me even though he clearly wants to prostrate himself whenever he sees me. It’s not bad, being strange. I finish my drink in one go. “You don’t mind?” I ask, and Brendon quirks an eyebrow. “About him working with the band. Coming on tour with us next spring.”

“I’m in a situation where I don’t have the luxury to mind,” he says through slightly gritted teeth.

“He’ll do the documentary for half the price an established director will.”

“Sure that’s why you chose him,” he says sarcastically.

I look at the girl on stage, dropping her pick, bending over to pick it up, and getting enthusiastic cheers from the male members of the audience. “So why haven’t you told Shane about... you know. I doubt he’d want to work with me if he knew I beat him to it.”

Brendon is smiling disbelievingly to his glass when I look at him. Yeah, it’s not like it was a race. Not like Shane and I are the only men to have ever gone there. But why has Brendon kept quiet? He loves Shane, after all. He was shouting it from rooftops not so long ago. So why lie? The shame? The guilt? There’s got to be a reason.

“It’s not healthy for any relationship to recite one’s entire sexual past,” he says before tucking hair behind his ear and taking another sip of water. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him drink water before. He scratches his temple nervously. “Besides, now it’d only make things weird. He’s signed the contract. He’s happier not knowing, and it was just. A meaningless thing, so I don’t see the reason to.” He stops to consider his words, but then seems to put it behind himself. “Anyway. Shane’s working with you guys. That hardly affects my life. He’ll talk about it a lot, but I’ll talk about my day too.”

“Like couples do,” I supply, even if I am fully stuck on ‘meaningless thing’. So meaningless that I have his skin crawling whenever we see each other. I don’t care if it’s dislike because it’s not indifference. It’s not meaningless. If it was meaningless, he would have told Shane.

“Yeah, like couples do.” He stubs out the cigarette into the ashtray. “I doubt your girlfriend knows a blow by blow account of your flings either.”

“Even I don’t know that.”

“Yeah.” He shifts restlessly. “Exactly.”

He looks around the room, from the girl singing badly on stage to the lookers on to the people hanging at the bar to the lone guy in the corner scribbling on napkins, looking like a pretentious poet if there ever was one. Brendon sighs. “Where’d Ian disappear to?” I can’t see him anywhere either, and Brendon stands up and smoothes down his dress shirt. His jeans hug his legs tightly, and I don’t look at the shape and contours of his body, lands that I once explored. He wouldn’t let me anywhere near him now.

“I’m sure Ian’s fine.”

“I don’t see him anywhere, and he wouldn’t just take off,” Brendon argues. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

He goes after Ian like a good friend would. The good friend that he is.

I feel idle and out of place, and fuck it, I’ve finished my drink again. Should’ve flat out asked for the bottle. I head to the bar again, get ice again, and I lean against the sticky wood of the counter and stare at the golden contents of the glass, at the little ice cubes floating in it.

A hand lands on my shoulder unexpectedly. “Ryan.” I crane my neck and look at Brendon, then at his fingers on my jacket. The way the calloused fingertips press into my bony shoulder through my clothes. They slip off. “I, um – Ian’s taken some shit. He’s in the toilets. I need help back there.” He fidgets. “Our friends have gone and –”

“Okay.”

A simple ‘Ryan’ would have sufficed.

I follow Brendon to the dirty and claustrophobic men’s toilets, black tile floors, orange walls. Makes me feel neurotic. Ian’s sitting on the floor between two urinals, legs spread out, back against the wall. His mouth is hanging open, and he looks like he’s rolling around in bliss instead of the gruesome reality of piss.

“Ian,” Brendon says, going over and giving Ian a shake. “Ian, we’re leaving now.”

“But we’ve just arrived, man,” Ian declares, eyes out of focus. He laughs at something behind me, and I look over my shoulder to see if someone’s there. Nothing but a bathroom stall.

“He’s fucked,” I say, and Brendon glares at me like that’s kind of obvious, thank you very much. He’s not dangerously fucked, but semi-coherent. There’s nothing to be worried about.

“Come help me,” Brendon says snappily.

Together we get Ian up to standing, Ian’s arms wrapped around our shoulders. He weighs like a ton of bricks, laughing loudly and mumbling incoherently. LSD, maybe? Coke? It’s hard to tell. He dangles between us, and I get a mouthful of hair at one point when he almost slumps against me. “He just needs some air,” Brendon says when we get out of the toilets. Air. Sure. I’ve heard that one before.

Dragging Ian up the stairs of the bar is painful, but we manage it and soon are on the cold street. Brendon realises that Ian’s forgotten his jacket and while he retrieves it, I let Ian sit back down on the sidewalk with his back to the closed formal attire rental shop a few doors down from the bar. Ian shivers but doesn’t actually seem to be aware of the chilly December air.

“Having a good time?” I ask Ian as I get out a cigarette.

He doesn’t hear, but suddenly, his eyes focus on me. “I’m a fag,” he says. Yeah. Sure. I figured as much. He laughs. “I’m a gay fag, so I’m always having a good time.”

“Good for you.”

He grins like a madman. “I’d love for you to fuck me. For Ryan Ross to fuck me.”

I laugh and light my cigarette. “Again, good for you.”

He closes his eyes and breathes. Then he leans to his side a little and vomits on the street. I’m a safe distance away, but instinctively step back from the mess. He better throw up now and not when he’s lying on his back. No, definitely don’t want that. Something as simple as gravity has snatched away some of our best men already.

“Aw, fuck me,” Brendon’s irritated voice comes as he’s now back. He looks at Ian finishing up his impromptu street decorations. He’s got Ian’s jacket with him, an ugly brown coat dangling from his grip. Instead of helping it on Ian, he just stares at his friend. “How the fuck am I supposed to get him home now? He’s going to vomit all over the subway and me, and he can hardly walk.”

“Take a taxi,” I offer.

Brendon laughs. “Yeah, like I have money for that.” I open my mouth, but Brendon says, “ _Don’t_.”

“I was just going to say,” I say slowly, pacifying, “that I don’t live too far from here. Leave Ian on my couch for the night. I’ll kick him out in the morning.”

Brendon looks down the street winding westwards. Wind ruffles his hair. “How far away?”

“Fifteen minutes with him,” I estimate. “Just need to get on Thompson Street and start heading south.”

Ian’s laughing to himself, not at all bothered by his nausea just a second ago. Brendon looks hesitant, eyes flying between his friend and me. “You sure you’d be okay with that?”

“Gabe does it all the time,” I lie.

He hesitates for a second longer before he says, “Well, I guess it’s easier than dragging him to Brooklyn.” He sounds defensive when he doesn’t need to be. We help Ian up to standing, and Brendon manages to put the jacket on him and even zip it up. Ian’s too disorientated to be allowed to walk by himself, but after two blocks he gets rejuvenated, pulls free from us, and proceeds to zig-zag on the sidewalk as we keep our eyes on him. “He’s not usually like this,” Brendon says after a while. We’re sharing a cigarette since I offered him one. Ian’s hugging a street lamp. Brendon takes a long drag, looking embarrassed. His best friend’s a junkie, and his boyfriend’s a no show. “Someone must’ve offered him some cheap shit.”

“Probably. That’s not a good trip he’s on,” I muse because Ian’s getting paler and paler, now shivering. There’s no need to take him to a hospital, though. He still knows his name and who I am. When that starts to go, that’s when I’ll worry.

We firmly guide Ian when we turn on Thompson Street. “Four blocks down,” I say, and we walk into the long line of cast-iron buildings as a taxi rattles down the cobble street. Brendon passes me my cigarette back. His fingers are cold when they briefly brush mine, our breaths rising into the air.

Ian stumbles ahead of us slowly. “We’re not in Kansas anymore!” he howls, cackling, followed by, “Who said that?!” He looks around in bewilderment, eyes wide and panicked.

“He’s usually _really_ not like this,” Brendon persists.

We’re back to dragging Ian as his energy fades, and as we cross Prince Street, two tonsured men in brown tunics pass us, both smiling our way. “Peace, Ryan!” one of them says.

“You too, Brother Jack,” I say, nodding since my arms are preoccupied with Ian. Ian’s hand flies around aimlessly and tips my hat over my eyes. I mutter curses, and we stop for me to fix it. Brendon is quirking an eyebrow, looking after the two men, and I say, “Franciscans friars. They live on the next block.” Brendon is still staring, Ian dangling between us with his head bobbing to our movements like he’s a buoy at sea. “The brothers are big Followers fans,” I explain, and Brendon laughs disbelievingly. It’s a very colourful neighbourhood, the perfect environment to disappear into. I nod towards the red brick building we’re now outside of. “This is it.”

Fire escape stairs go back and forth over the facade, and someone’s smoking on the landing of the third floor. We ascend the stone steps to the front door as I get out my keys.

“Which floor you on?” Brendon asks, trying to support Ian the best he can.

“Sixth. Top floor.”

“Any chance there’s an elevator in there?”

I push the door open and grin at Brendon. “Nope.”

Ian falls flat on his face through the opened doorway. Brendon stares at his friend’s back. “Great.”

Dragging Ian up six floors definitely isn’t what I had planned for the evening, but Brendon and I manage it. I take Ian’s shoulders, and Brendon takes his legs. Brendon’s a lot stronger than he looks – I noticed that when he was a roadie for us. My left elbow starts hurting when we reach the fourth landing, but I grit my teeth and say nothing. Ian mumbles incoherently, occasionally pulling away from our hold, and we almost drop him on the hard steps at least a dozen times. When we get to the top with Ian still intact and not bleeding, I’m pleasantly surprised.

Brendon’s out of breath, his hair a mess. I get out keys again and open the door to my apartment before lifting Ian up one last time. “Living room couch,” I say, leading the way as we carry Ian along the entrance hallway, reaching the end where the living room opens up on one side. We carefully walk past the LP shelves covering one of the living room walls, and I hit my shin against the corner of the coffee table, but we manage to lie Ian down on the couch.

“Ow,” he groans from us apparently having been too rough, but he seems comfortable where he is, relaxing against the cushions. I try to catch my breath a little, unbuttoning my coat and throwing it on the couch that’s still free.

“He’ll be alright there for the night,” I say, noticing the remote sticking from beneath Ian’s back, quickly pulling it from beneath him and putting it on the coffee table.

“Wow,” Brendon says. He’s not looking at Ian, but at the dining table that’s on the other side of the room, next to the archway to the kitchen. That area is a dining room, really, though it’s not separated by an actual wall. Brendon looks around in the dark, street light coming through the windows. “This place is, like... three times bigger than that place you had in LA.”

“I upgraded,” I explain but then it occurs to me that Brendon’s in my home, and I start motioning around like an idiot. “This used to be one big space. I think they made shoes here in the fifties. I bought it real cheap, had these walls built... There was an architect drawing it up.”

“And Keltie decorated.” He’s eyeing a pair of panties on the living room floor between us. Plain white ones that are visible in the dark. Keltie likes the pair.

I quickly pick them up, annoyed that they decided to lie there for all the world to see. I stuff them in my pant pocket quickly. “I hired someone to decorate the place. Keltie and I don’t live together.”

Brendon looks genuinely surprised. “You mean you’ve got... half of this building’s top floor all to yourself?”

“Yeah.”

Brendon seems impressed at first, but then he only laughs emptily. “Life must be fucking easy when you’re loaded.”

“Not really,” I mutter, throwing my hat on top of my coat and going for my tie next. Ian’s other arm dangles off the couch awkwardly.

“Ryan,” Ian mumbles from the couch, gazing at me through half-lidded eyes. He’s got a stupidly proud grin on his face. “You’re radiating orange and blue.” He tugs at his own shirt in disorientation. “We going to fuck now?”

“Ian, what the fuck?” Brendon hisses. He didn’t hear the previous proposal on the street, but I don’t get why he’s so shocked. Ian can never take his eyes off of me.

“Maybe later,” I say, and Ian looks disappointed but then loses his moment of clarity and curls up in on himself tiredly.

“Jesus,” Brendon says.

“Don’t be too hard on the kid,” I say as we now head back to the hallway leading to the door. I switch the lights on, finally managing to tug off my tie. When Brendon scoffs, I say, “His crush is kind of cute.”

“Vomiting all over 4th Street isn’t cute,” he argues, his steps slowing by the wall of book shelves, head tilting as he reads the titles. I push the bedroom door open, switching the lights on there too before throwing my tie on the unmade bed. It lands on the floor halfway there. “If he, like,” Brendon says from behind me, “gets up in the middle of the night to try and molest you, don’t feel guilty about punching his lights out.”

“I’m not going to fuck him, in case you’re worried,” I say, my eyes landing on the bed where a rectangular, flat package that got delivered earlier is still lying. I quickly close the door before Brendon sees it.

“I’m not worried.”

I quickly card my hair, restless for no reason. I should have stopped to consider the situation more fully before bringing him here. I cover up my anxiety with a smirk. “You sound worried.”

“For him, maybe. He’s totally fucked.”

“Well, he’s not my type,” I respond in annoyance, unbuttoning the top buttons of my dress shirt. Like he honestly thinks I’d need to take advantage of his friend. “You want a drink?”

“No, no, I need to get going.” It’s getting close to one in the morning, and it shows on him. His eyes are tired, his features softer somehow, but he’s trying not to show it. He tries to be as angular as he can, tough as steel. He looks like Brooklyn’s too far away, but he’ll be damned if he admits that. “Shane’s probably back already too, and –” He stops in the middle of a sentence, a sudden calm taking over him even as his eyes fill with wonder. “That’s mine.”

“What?”

“What you’re wearing.” His eyes focus on the slice of chest that’s now been exposed by the opened top buttons. I look down myself and can just see the silver chain resting against my skin. “That’s mine,” he repeats. “I gave it to you once.” His voice sounds searching. Our eyes meet, and I can feel cold sweat pushing through. “During that photo shoot on the roof.”

I shake my head with a quick laugh. “This isn’t the same chain.”

“Looks a lot like it.”

“Well, it’s not.”

“You sure? I got my initials engraved onto the clasp, and –”

“This isn’t that one!” I snap angrily, and Brendon takes a step back, eyes widening. Stupid chain. Stupid night. Stupid life. I quickly button up my shirt, and I don’t know what to say now, what the hell he wants me to say. He seems to be at a loss for words too. I don’t know why I wanted him to drop by. See the place. Impress him. Pathetic. “You better go.”

“Yeah. Alright.” He looks solemn. “I’m going.”

I see him to the door, and he gets a brown woollen scarf out of his jacket pocket and wraps it around his neck. He takes two steps out the door before he swirls around quickly. “Thanks. By the way. For looking after Ian. You really didn’t have to, you know.”

“It’s no bother.”

“Yeah, but –” He stops and fidgets slightly, like he isn’t sure what protocol should be followed in this case. “Just thank you. I appreciate it.”

I lean against the doorframe, crossing my arms. “Wow. I deserve an actual English thank you.”

His brows furrow, but then he laughs. “Oh!” His eyes sparkle for a second, reminding me of a time that passed a long time ago. My chest constricts painfully. “I, um, I don’t do that anymore.” He smiles wide at the memory, a faint pink blush on his cheeks. He’s never looked more charming in his life. “I realised that if it’s the only thing going for me, it’s kind of sad, so. I stopped doing it.”

“It wasn’t sad. It made you different.” I focus all of my attention to my finger nails. “That’s what I liked about you.”

When I look up, his smile is gone. “Goodnight, then,” he says quietly.

I tip an invisible hat. “Bonsoir.”

He lets out a laugh and smiles, and I don’t know why I feel like I’ve just been crowned the king of New York for the simple achievement.

Brendon lifts his hand as a goodbye, smiling, and I lift my hand in return. He pulls up the collar of his jacket as he gets to the stairs, soon disappearing from sight though his footsteps echo. I keep listening to the sound until the door opens and closes six floors down.

I finally kick my shoes off as I close my front door. Ian’s snoring loudly in the living room, but I hardly hear it once my bedroom door is closed as a sound barrier.

My bed squeaks when I sit on the edge, and I pick up the parcel lying next to me. The brown, thick paper is hard to tear off, but soon I have the large frame in my hands. A blurry, black and white Brooklyn street stares at me, but I ignore it, and there in the corner, there: the face of a man with soft looking skin. A shy smile. Eyes cast downwards. Hair a mess. Happiness and love captured in one stupid shot. His lips look soft. Maybe a bit swollen, like he’s just been kissed, before they left the confines of their apartment.

I turn the photo frame around to find a little piece of paper glued to the back: ‘The Boy by Shane Valdes.’

I flip it back around, look at Brendon’s smiling form a second time, and then I quickly hide the frame under my bed, convinced that I don’t have to think about it if I can’t see it.

I can show up for his shows, employ his boyfriend, take care of his idiot friend, but there isn’t necessarily anything I can do to tip the scale in my favour, so why the fuck am I still persistently turning myself into a joke in his eyes? Because he knows. He’s known since we first met at that party, and he still...

A thud sounds from the other side of the wall. Ian’s fallen onto the floor. “Fuck,” I laugh miserably and let myself fall backwards on the bed.

Although I can’t feel it, the chain’s lock is pressing ‘B.B.U.’ into the skin of my neck.


	5. Stalemate

“Do you hear that?” Jon asks, a concentrated look on his face. The practice room goes quiet as the rest of us try to figure out what Jon means.

Patrick, who is sitting on the stool next to mine with my old bass in his lap, frowns. He pushes glasses up his nose. “I don’t hear anything.”

“Exactly,” Jon says with a grin, content sitting on the floor with his legs crossed, bare feet sticking out at the sides. “Isn’t it marvellous how peaceful it is when Gabriel Saporta fails to show up for practice?”

Keltie laughs from the couch, flipping onto the next page of the women’s magazine she’s got with her.

“My guess is that he’s passed out somewhere,” Jon goes on. “Like that time he vanished for a week, came back and said that he just somehow woke up in Atlantic City and stayed to gamble.”

“They just legalised gambling over there. Good some of us are enjoying it,” I argue, not wanting to say that Jon’s probably right and that Gabe’s most likely snoring loudly with a girl or a guy glued to his naked skin.

Patrick turns to me nervously. “Should we be talking about this when...?” he asks and nods to Shane, who is behind the video camera that he’s set up on a tripod. It’s his own camera, said that it cost a fortune as it’s the latest technology. It has to be: a portable camera. It even fits on Shane’s shoulder without him having to hunch like he’s walked out of Notre Dame.

“I’m not recording,” Shane informs us, standing up and no longer examining us through the lens. “I just want to see how the lighting works in here and then do that take of you guys playing a song.” He’s been anxious to get at least some rough material before Christmas. We’re all going our different ways for a good three weeks. It was going to be a short break. Christmas is next week already and Jon and I will be back for New Year’s, but while Gabe was intent on staying in town for the holidays, he’s now booked flights to go to Montevideo, claims he’s got a sick great grandmother that has expressed a dire wish to see him before her death. Gabe just feels like going on holiday, that’s all. I’m mostly surprised he’s got the money for it. In any case, The Whiskeys and I won’t be doing anything of real value for some time, which made the director uneasy and so Shane insisted that he shoot at least something.

“Sure, we’ll do one of the acoustic ones. We won’t need Gabe for those,” I say with a shrug. Jon’s not really upset over Gabe’s absence. Normally he’d be, and he’d give Gabe a piece of his mind when he’d eventually stumble in, hungover and hungry and asking for cigarettes, but even Jon knows that this was never going to be a serious session and that if Gabe stumbles in, he won’t have it in him to send Vicky breathing down Gabe’s neck. Jon’s leaving for Chicago with Cassie in two days, so he can’t be bothered working on the music seriously right now either. And Keltie’s here because I asked her to come and because we’ve got plans tonight, so it’s not like this was ever going to extend into the early hours of the morning again.

A lot of girls would be pestering me to put the guitar away and finish up already – we’ve got the housewarming party of some Rockette to attend – but Keltie seems content reading _Vogue_ with a narrow-nosed blonde on the cover. She’s great like that. The past few days I’ve spent more time with her than I have in a week or two. I forgot how great she is to have around, how wide she smiles at me when I walk into the room.

She notices me looking at her and winks. I smile and look away.

“Jon, you want to stay on the floor?” Shane asks tentatively, voice indicating that he’d rather Jon didn’t.

Jon stands up instantly, grip firm on the guitar’s neck. “Where d’you want me?”

Shane begins fussing about, and Jon must see something on my face that I don’t mean to show because he says a mumbled, “He’s the professional,” to me, which Shane doesn’t hear. Yeah, Shane’s the professional. Three documentaries on his belt, two artistic short films. I hired him, and I could fire him, too, but what would Brendon say to that? He’d probably express relief after having decapitated me for messing with him and Shane too much. I don’t mean to. I just didn’t have that many options.

And now I have to watch Brendon’s lover prance around my practice space, cracking jokes with Jon and Patrick, who both seem to like him. Even Keltie seems to approve.

Shane’s a charmer. Oh, he’s a fucking charmer, and I’ve run out of ideas.

“What time is it?” Patrick asks Jon, who checks his wristwatch and says that it’s quarter past five. Patrick seems to make a mental note of it, and then smiles apologetically. “I’ve got to leave for work in half an hour. The store’s full of parents trying to get that vampire book under the Christmas tree.” He scoffs. “Vampires. The kids these days.”

“I liked that book,” Jon says from the couch. “The Lestat guy sounded pretty sexy.”

Patrick scoffs again, though Jon’s grin is an obvious sign of him trying to push Patrick’s buttons a little. “Thank god I’m quitting after the holidays,” he says and rubs his face with a tired hand. He’s not used to staying up until sunrise and then having an actual job on the side too. Gabe, Jon and I have nothing else to do.

“I keep forgetting you work at a book store!” Shane says happily, having now seated Jon on a stool next to Patrick and me. “Brendon never mentioned it, and now you’re in The Whiskeys.”

“It’s a step up,” Patrick admits and fixes his bowtie self-consciously, eyeing the camera gazing at us with its dead circle eye of nothing.

It only hits me then that there will actually be a documentary. I was mostly convinced that it wouldn’t work out, that Vicky would talk me out of it, that Shane would get struck by lightning. Jon asks me what song we should play.

I recall The Followers’ first and last TV appearance. Spencer was wearing this stupid bandanna, and we smoked outside beforehand, and he said that the hat that Jac had made for me was ridiculous, which it was, but I wore it because it made her happy and because it was a good joke. And I didn’t like it, having to pose for the cameras. I hated the self-exposure, and Spencer got that. Squeezed my shoulder. Said it’d be okay.

Jon and Patrick don’t get it. Keltie doesn’t.

I fleetingly wish that Spencer was here.

But fuck me if he’d get it either anymore. Doesn’t matter. An old friend, a more recent enemy. It’s just a part of something bigger. Not sure what yet. I’m working it out. Or, even worse, an old lover that is dangling in front of me like a damn carrot stick for a donkey. So I’m the donkey. That’s great. That’s fantastic. And then Shane’s the other donkey that trots over and munches the stick in front of me. Bad donkey. Shoot the donkey.

“Ryan?” Shane’s voice comes from some other world, and I blink and find my bandmates, director and girlfriend looking at me.

“Yeah. Um. Let’s take a break before we start.”

Shane looks crestfallen. I dig out cigarettes, hand the guitar to Patrick, and walk across the room, steering clear of the camera. I plop down on the couch next to Keltie, who has put her copy of _Vogue_ down onto her lap. She looks at me with brown eyes full of love and concern. She never attempts to hide her feelings. It’s almost embarrassing weren’t it so comforting. “You okay?” she asks, her fingers carding my hair, sliding locks behind my ear with certain movements, the finesse gained from having done it a lot.

“Sure.” I don’t offer her the cigarette. She doesn’t smoke. It’s bad for you, she claims. I suck on the stick energetically.

I keep my eyes on the video camera, the machine gun, the ugly teller of truths. Why did it seem like a good idea to offer myself to the world after all this time? What will people think of it? Will I be sympathetic? Some otherworldly genius? An asshole? I don’t know what story the camera plans on telling. Shane’s a fan. That should help, but I look less shiny to him every day. That always happens: I’m the ugly duckling reversed. I look like a swan, but when you wait a while...

Patrick and Jon are talking to Shane about the lights or which side of their face is more photogenic or where they should look.

Keltie cuddles closer, and I wrap my arm around her shoulders and pull her in. She’s warm and solid and smells like that perfume I got her once. “I can’t wait for my parents to meet you,” she says.

“Can’t wait to meet them either,” I say automatically, but the words come out heavy and strained. Everything’s heavy and strained now. Bonsoir, I said, like a well-travelled man, and he smiled at that, but I must remember this, a kiss is just a kiss, and by extension a smile is just a smile. Dooley knew what he was on about, and it drapes over me. I don’t hate Shane. I never did. I just thought he was an idiot. But now it seems that he can’t be overthrown, _him_ , and I’m _me_ , and yet nothing has changed, and now I have to decide whether or not to hate him. He doesn’t deserve my wrath. He’s not special enough for that. At least Joe is. Brent too. Spencer. Him especially.

“I want to show you the school I went to, the park near our house,” Keltie lists in this sing-song voice that is soothing. Going to Canada for Christmas. Fly to Calgary, then to Edmonton, drive from there. Sit down with Mom and Dad while Keltie beams and clutches my hand tightly. Picket fence Canada. It somehow rings even worse than our own more patriotic version, probably because they’re Canadians and thus by default have more sincerity in their happiness.

But as much as it disgusts me, I’m simultaneously enthralled and curious. How does Spencer James Smith do it? He was supposed to be like me. I spent my adolescence moulding Spencer to be just like me, just not quite as bad, and I thought I did such a fabulous job and then – Well. Maybe it’s the women. They change men. And if Haley did it, who says Keltie won’t do it for me?

And then the carrot stick is just a carrot stick that I have no interest in eating. Sure.

Maybe I should vouch for hating Shane.

“Hey,” Keltie says, soft and melodic. I didn’t realise that I let out a dramatic sigh. Her eyes are questioning and worried.

“I’m fine,” I assure her. “I’m fine. Just.” I glance at the guys, the camera, the spy, the eater of souls. “Just promise me that if Shane wants to do more than one song, you’ll say we’re late and get me out of here, okay?”

She gently brushes my cheek with the back of her hand. “Okay.” She doesn’t ask why, but clearly can tell that this session doesn’t have me within my comfort zone.

“You’re my rock,” I say and kiss her on the forehead. She beams at me when I get up, and my insides flutter a little. She’s not in vain, that girl.

Thankfully, she doesn’t know that I call Vicky my rock whenever I see her. Keltie doesn’t like Vicky. Or Greta. Or any females I work with, it seems. Greta doesn’t realise it. Vicky does. She might be a little in love with me, Vicky, but a lot of them are. I should ask Gabe what he thinks. He knows these things.

“Alright,” I say when I sit back on my stool and take the guitar that Patrick hands me. “We’ll do...” One that doesn’t have a single reference to runaway kids, lost boys, cocky young men, free spirits, etc. And nothing about summers. I hate summers. “Fuck, we’ll do a song about...” I scratch the side of my head. Shane’s behind the camera now, hand on the lever on the side that allows him to move the black block around. A red light is on, and I forgot what I meant to say. I duck my head quickly. This is just to get something filmed, Shane said. This won’t end up in the actual documentary. “Back in the summer of ’75, I was in Portland. I hired a car to drive down to LA, but I ended up in Nevada, and in a bar I met this guy who worked in a circus. He was in bad shape. I was in bad shape. But he said to me that kids still laugh, and the sun still rises, which just made me think of that Hemingway novel and made me think of ghosts and some people I didn’t want to think about. I got back to the car, ran out of gas in the desert and wrote a song. It’s called _Five Close Calls_ , all for the times I think I probably should’ve died by now. It’ll be on the album, I think.”

And then I start playing, and Jon joins in automatically. Patrick’s got a tambourine ready, and it’s almost good that Gabe isn’t here because the song sounds better stripped down and raw, oozing blood. It’s a lengthy song, somewhere between six and seven minutes, but I had a lot to say when I wrote it, and there’s a bit where Jon and Patrick do backup vocals, and Patrick doesn’t mess up once despite being new. But I feel embarrassed singing it, not sure why I said too much. I should’ve just played it. Let them wonder at the strange imagery.

When we finally finish the song, I look up to find Shane and Keltie standing behind the camera, both looking transfixed. A silence lands on us, and I fidget slightly. “Was that alright?”

Keltie marches over and gives me a hug out of nowhere. She squeezes me tightly, and her eyelashes brush the side of my face, leaving wet marks behind. Shane clears his throat. “Yeah.” His voice sounds rough. “Yeah, that was alright.”

Jon and Patrick look guilty like they’ve just read my diary, even if they don’t know anything of the specifics.

“That was great,” she says, but there’s sadness in her eyes. I want to tell her that it’s not her fault. It’s just a song. I wrote it before I met her, and I’m still not sure if I wanted to die when I wrote it. I can’t have because I’m still here.

A knock sounds from the door, breaking the spell of something all too serious lingering around. The red light of the camera dies, fades out like it’s retreating.

“I’ll get that,” Shane says, and Keltie pulls back from the hug.

The warmth and sparks of her touch seem to vanish, and the hairs at the back of my neck prick up when I hear a voice I’d recognise anywhere. Shane’s holding the door open, and Brendon’s stepped into the practice space, wrapped up in a thick, grey winter coat. The entire world shifts focus, or at least my world does, and it feels like all of my vital organs curl up painfully. Our eyes meet before I can stop it, and the rush of blood to my head sounds loud in my ears. I drop my gaze simultaneously with him. Fuck.

“Hey, guys,” he says. He sounds out of breath, like he was in a hurry on his way here. I sneak a glance and admire the pinkness of his cheeks. It’s cold outside.

We mumble replies. I wrap an arm around Keltie’s waist and keep her standing by me, focusing on the way her hip feels beneath my hand.

“So this is the lair, huh?” Brendon asks.

“This is it,” Jon says.

Patrick is smiling at Brendon, though it’s become clear that Patrick is better acquainted with Ian, and knows Brendon mostly by extension. He asks, “What brings you here?”

“Yeah, what are you doing here?” Shane queries, looking perplexed and still holding the door open like he didn’t expect his boyfriend to march through it.

Brendon turns to Shane. “We’re going Christmas shopping.” Pause. “We are, aren’t we?”

There’s an edge of ominous gloom in Brendon’s voice, and I busy myself examining the floor. I’m okay with watching Shane, and I can bear looking at Brendon, too, if I have to. But throw them both into the mix, and I’d rather not.

“Oh! That- That was today? I thought. I mean.” Shane sounds thrown off. “Shit, you want me to go now?”

“Well, yeah,” Brendon says, and a tense silence lands between them, radiating all the way across the room to us. Brendon clears his throat. “Can we talk outside for a minute?”

The door opens and closes without me hearing anything else, and I finally lift my hanging head.

Jon chuckles, “Someone’s in trouble.” Keltie frowns, and yeah, she doesn’t know they’re gay and dating. I don’t see why I need to blow their roommate cover either. Jon knows, of course, heard Brendon yelling that Jon’s old drummer could suck his cock or something along the lines, and I assume that Patrick knows. Or at least suspects it, but is considerate enough not to ask. “Shane said he’d come out with me tonight,” Jon then adds.

Raised voices carry through the door, the dense wooden particles blurring what sounds like a ‘have only been home to sleep in the past two days, how could I remember’, but I don’t want to hear a word of that exchange or soak myself in the angered words and offended glares. I don’t want to keep on clutching at straws.

Jon figures that we shouldn’t be eavesdropping and starts playing the intro to a Canadian History song that I vaguely recognise.

“You think we’re done here?” I ask and motion at the camera.

“Probably,” Jon agrees, and I slide off the stool, glad to be off the hook.

“We should get going,” I tell Keltie. Sticking around in hopes of a massive row between the lovers would just make me a sadder fuck than Brendon’s already proven me to be. He’s not impenetrable though he likes to think so. There’s got to be a way in, but I just don’t know what it is, and right now, not knowing is exhausting me. Throwing myself at him seems like the last drastic measure, but he’d turn me down and punch me in the face, and I like my face the way it is.

“We need to clean up a little,” Jon says, fingers ceasing on the strings. “We won’t be back for a few weeks, so we could at least put everything in place.”

I look around the messy practice room and nod, but Patrick instantly says that, oh, he should be leaving for work or he’ll be late for his shift. Sneaky fucker.

“You’ll help us, right?” I ask Keltie, but she looks hesitant.

“Well, I just – I wondered if I had time to stop in the shoe store across the street?” she asks, eyes suddenly lighting up in girlish enthusiasm, and I don’t have it in me to say no to that.

“Sure,” I concede, and she pecks my lips before grabbing her jacket and heading out with Patrick. They get to the door just as it opens, and Shane and Brendon come in. The arriving and departing guests do a back and forth motion of who goes first before Keltie’s laugh disarms the situation, and Shane and Brendon step aside to let her and Patrick through.

Brendon’s face is expressionless, but Shane looks like Brendon’s got him by the balls and is annoyed by it. “Listen, Jon.” He motions back and forth aimlessly and says, “I think I’ll have to cancel, man. This is probably the only chance we get to go buy our friends’ presents together. It totally escaped my mind. Another time, yeah?”

“Yeah, man. Don’t worry about it.”

Brendon’s wearing a red scarf, not the same one he wore a few nights ago. I wonder if he intends to promote the Christmas spirit with it.

“I’ll need to drive the van around for my stuff,” Shane then says, and yeah, half of the mess in the practice room is Shane’s, not ours: cameras, video cameras, lights, cables. “Bren, could you get the car? I parked it two blocks down and –”

“You want me to do it when you should’ve been ready when I got here?” Brendon asks disbelievingly, and Shane opens his mouth like he’s going to say his piece, but Brendon says, “You know I can’t work that thing; the gears are fucked.”

“You just need to give the gear stick a little shake like I showed you, and –”

“But I’m _telling_ you that it won’t cooperate with me!”

“I’ll do it,” Jon says out of nowhere, and Brendon and Shane both quiet down. “I’m kind of magical with cars. My dad’s a mechanic, you know.” He keeps smiling, and I realise that he’s probably trying to get Brendon to like him again. Jon’s not a softie, but he seems to be one of those guys who doesn’t rest knowing that someone dislikes him. Despite having been a musician for as long as I have, Jon still has so much to learn. You can’t pick your enemies, so you need to accept them and move on. “If you show me how to drive the thing, I think we’ll be fine,” he then tells Brendon.

“Yeah. Yeah, sure,” Brendon concedes and takes the keys that Shane is now giving him. “But be quick down here,” he says, eyeing all of Shane’s stuff. “Stores will close in an hour, and I want to get William something nice, alright?”

“I’ll be as quick as I can,” Shane says, sending Brendon what looks like an appeasing puppy smile, but Brendon just turns on his heels and marches out.

When Jon passes Shane, the director says a simple, “Thanks.” I focus on picking up one of the guitar cables and rolling it together. “Christmas shopping,” Shane says, widening his eyes almost comically to indicate how insane he thinks it is as he walks over to the tripod.

“Yeah.” I don’t see the point in saying anything more.

He easily detaches the video camera from the tripod and carefully carries it to the couch, where he sits down and gets out the padded camera bag. “Um,” he says just as I unplug a bass. His hair is falling in front of his eyes, and he flicks it back by jerking his head to the side. “Sorry about that. I know this is a workplace.”

He’s talking about Brendon. To me.

“Don’t worry about it.”

“No, really. I’m committed to this project, I really am. Brendon just –”

“ _Really._ ” Shut up. God, shut up, shut up, shut up.

“Okay.” Yet, after a short pause, he says, “I want to get William a good present too, you know. Keep myself in his good graces, although he kind of adores me.” He laughs a little, and I hate the way his hair looks so shiny and silky and smooth, when mine is never like that but unruly and impossible. William also hated my guts. Thought I was no good for Brendon. Yeah, he was right and probably delighted to know it. “William can be damn scary when he’s mad, so Bren’s probably right about the present.”

“Yeah. I guess.”

“Yeah...” His voice is lingering somehow, catching my attention, and when I’m done putting the bass into a hard case, I look over to Shane, who’s still sitting down but now rolling a cable. He looks thoughtful and unsure. “You, um. Can I ask you something?” His voice sounds nervous. I nod because if someone asks you if they can ask you something, you can’t really say no. “I know that you were, you know, on tour and doing interviews and really busy, but you must’ve spent some time with the roadies too back then, right? At least sometimes.”

Shane is definitely the last person in this world I want to discuss that summer with.

“Sure.”

“Yeah, so... Did William and Brendon ever...?” His voice trails off, and he does a vague hand motion. “I mean. Did it seem to you that the two of them might have?”

I don’t know what I was expecting him to say, but definitely not that, and I laugh without meaning to. Shane looks affronted. “Um, I think Brendon slept with Bowie but William? No, no. God, no.” Shane looks at me funny. He probably thinks I’m making the Bowie bit up, but I’m not. “William and Brendon are just friends. Were the last time I checked, anyway,” I then say, suddenly getting a slice of Shane’s paranoia. Who knows what happened after it was over. Maybe William decided to comfort Brendon a little.

“Yeah. Yeah, you’re right,” Shane then says, frowning like he’s not sure what’s wrong with him. “Bren’s just been off lately, and he keeps stressing out about William coming to visit us over Christmas. Something or someone’s got to be on his mind.” He now laughs embarrassedly. “I thought that maybe, you know. He and Bill. Because William’s always been overly protective of Brendon. I figured that maybe it was jealousy or something. That maybe William was or that at one point they had... I don’t know.” He drops the cable roll onto the floor and picks up another mess of liquorice-like cable. “Never mind. Sorry, it was stupid.”

“Probably just Christmas stress,” I offer, telling my suddenly rapid pulse to calm the fuck down. I quickly look away in fear of Shane reading something on my face that he really shouldn’t.

The door opens again, and Brendon walks in. I almost flinch. Shane puts on a smile that can’t be genuine but certainly looks like it is. Then again, I don’t know him very well.

Brendon takes in a deep breath and says, “I know I’ve parallel parked tour buses when I’ve been on acid, but I swear to god that I cannot park that thing outside and we’re holding up traffic and a turban-wearing taxi driver is threatening to beat Jon up.”

Shane gets up instantly. “I’ll take care of it.”

Brendon breathes out, stress almost visibly draining out of him. “I’ll pack some of this for you in the meantime.”

“Okay,” Shane says, and they smile at each other, making up after the previous bickering, and bile pools at the pit of my stomach as my uneven fingernails dig into the flesh of my palm.

Shane hurries out, and Brendon unwraps the scarf around his neck, giving me a small, meaningless smile.

“Hey,” he repeats, and I nod. He unbuttons the jacket and throws it on the couch, revealing a big collared, yellow plaid shirt and a pair of blue jeans that come up high on the waist, the shirt neatly tucked into the tight jeans. I never care what Jon’s wearing or Gabe or anyone else, but Brendon just dresses nicely. Maybe it’s the fag thing that he always manages to look so fucking good.

“We’re clearing up our shit too,” I say for the sake of saying something. Brendon looks at me and nods. I keep waiting for something to happen: crash, bang, smoke. The air feels like it’s been stretched out to its limits, is getting pulled at the corners, and even the smallest movement might cause it to break, but at the same time I feel chained down and unable to do anything about it.

Brendon takes the tripod, clearly knowing what he’s doing, and two minutes pass in silence while I try to think of something smooth to say, or maybe silence is golden, but I feel so aware of him and everything he does, and my guts are still twisting into messy cable knots from Shane’s words.

“So,” he says suddenly, halting me as I’m now taking the cymbals off the drum kit. The simple word is already making it easier to breathe. I just need to stay calm. That’s all. “You got any Christmas plans?”

“Yeah. Going to Keltie’s parents’ house in Alberta.”

Brendon nods. “Oh. Right.” He pushes the tripod legs together and looks at me briefly, a sprinkle of chocolate brown eyes. “Have a good trip.”

“Thanks.” After a considerable pause and after I’ve put the cymbals in hardcases, I ask, “You?”

“Just working. It’s busy around this time of the year, and people can be generous, so it’s a good time to make some money.”

“Shane said that Will’s visiting you guys.”

“Oh, yeah. That too.”

“That’s nice.” Small talk. William keeps haunting me now, and who knows, maybe Shane’s right. Maybe William’s the distraction. Maybe Brendon’s got a man for every finger. Maybe when William got back to San Francisco, the two spent hours bashing me, and then William fucked Brendon on that shitty, thin mattress in the guest room above Terry’s drycleaners, and it was the best damn orgasm of Brendon’s life. Maybe. What do I know?

“Thanks for the other night, by the way,” he says.

“Oh. Did Ian get back alright, then? He seemed somewhat aware when I threw him out.”

Brendon, to my surprise, smiles. “Yeah. He said that you even let him have some breakfast.”

“Keltie’s the one who fixed breakfast,” I say truthfully. She asked who and what was on my couch and why exactly. I mumbled something in response, and Keltie shrugged it off.

“Ah. That’s nice.” Everything’s nice, it seems, as we keep throwing the adjective around. “He didn’t mention Keltie.”

“She makes pretty amazing pancakes.” A lie – she bought croissants from the bakery down the street, but I just want to know if the strain in Brendon’s smile is real or a figment of my imagination.

“Yeah,” he replies. “That’s nice.” I remain indecisive on the smile front. He rolls up cables quickly and efficiently, marks of his former profession. “Ian’s sworn never to do drugs again,” he then says with a grin.

“Yeah? How long will that last?”

“A week, I think.”

I laugh, and he smiles wider. I press my fore and middle finger against the pulse point on my right wrist, making it look casual by wrapping all of my fingers around the tube of skin and bones.

“I just,” Brendon says, voice soft. He lets out a breath. “You didn’t have to, man. But I appreciate it that you did.”

“It really was nothing.” Somewhere at the back of my brain where I’m analysing all of this, weighing the words and body language and the laughter in his eyes, I’ve gained momentum and now it’s there, the question, pouring out of my mouth: “Did you ever fuck him?”

He freezes and looks at me with wide eyes. “What?”

“William. Did you two ever fuck?”

He frowns, and it seems that it’s mostly out of confusion and surprise that he says, “No,” like he can’t imagine why I’d think that or let alone ask. Shane appears to be too polite or too in love to do the digging himself. Wouldn’t want to offend Brendon. Is afraid of the truth. Me, I’ve got nothing to lose.

“What about Ian?”

Brendon takes a step back, brows furrowing. “No. He – Fuck. He’s my friend, Ry. Christ.” And it’s only then as an afterthought that he adds, “God, that’s so none of your business.”

“Yeah, it’s not. Sorry.” It’s probably the most meaningless apology I’ve ever given. The surprise of me having asked is going to fade in, oh, twenty seconds’ time, and then I’ll be faced with his wrath.

But as if on cue, the door opens and Keltie walks in, carrying a pastel coloured shopping bag. She smiles at us and motions towards the ceiling as a vague ‘up and out there’ gesture. “Jon and Shane managed to park the van.” She stops, takes us in. Brendon’s cheeks look rosy, and yeah, there it is, the bubbling anger he’d want to launch on me right now.

“We’ll be late soon,” Keltie tells me, but I’m buzzing and finding it hard to concentrate. A dinner party full of Keltie’s giggling friends ogling me. I’m up for it. I’m up for anything. Right now, a quick exit’s key. “I don’t know if I’ll see you before we leave,” Keltie says to Brendon as I get my jacket on, “so happy holidays!” She gives him a radiating smile.

“Yeah. You too.” Brendon’s voice lacks all the warmth and genuine well-wishing that Keltie’s voice had.

Keltie links arms with me, and I look at Brendon. “Happy holidays,” I tell him, seeing his pupils expand just a fraction when I let myself stare at him for too long. He just nods.

We pass Jon and Shane smoking by Shane’s beaten down, white 50s van that’s now neatly parked outside the building. We don’t stay to chit chat. I don’t know why I’m in such a hurry to leave, but I can’t let Jon or Shane see it. It’s going to be visible any second now, and I can’t have them catching on.

Keltie and I have been in the taxi for two blocks when it gets the better of me, and I press my face into my palm and let myself grin. My lips stretch wide against my hand, my fingers smelling of nicotine, the hard, calloused tips pressing into my forehead. I take in a calming breath or two before leaning against the backseat. I hear thousands of imaginary fans cheering, stage lights landing on me, and the world’s my stage once more.

“What’s got you so happy?” Keltie asks, laughing.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Nada,” I reply, letting Gabe’s influence on me show.

I can’t seem to stop smiling.

I’m the distraction.

“You’ve got the most mysterious smile on your lips, Mr. Ross,” Keltie tells me with a wicked grin of her own. “Something to do with my Christmas present, perhaps?” She wiggles her eyebrows suggestively.

“Miss Colleen, I’m afraid you’ll have to keep on guessing.” And then, as the high spirits and excitement gets to me, I lean over and give her a breathtaking kiss.

* * *

“This is not my idea of a good time,” Eric tells me flatly as we stay a respectful twenty feet away from the doorway where a couple is engaged in a fiery goodbye kiss. Or kisses. Making out. I shrug and look up and down Pineapple Street. It’s a funny name. Pineapple Street. Sounds like it should be in Honolulu, not Brooklyn. “Christ,” Eric then adds to make sure I don’t miss his disdain.

“You ever been to Hawaii?”

“No,” he says, crossing his arms and glaring at the couple. “Is this gonna take all day? Because I could be doing something productive, you know. I could be making surprise calls on one of my record shops.”

I look over and watch the girl’s delicate hands grab onto the back of Gabe’s black leather jacket. She shamelessly moves down and cops a feel. Gabe pushes closer, clearly enjoying the attention given to his well-toned behind. I’ve not noticed, but he’s persistently advertised it. Eric is mumbling that he’ll tip the cops about indecent exposure.

The girl is still grabbing Gabe’s ass, and Eric says, “Those are _my_ jeans. Rubbing _Gabe’s_ you-know-what.”

“Lucky jeans,” I note, and Eric shoots a death glare at me. “Hey, Romeo!” I call out. “Let’s hit the road, man.”

Gabe looks over his shoulder at us, mouth red like someone’s smeared strawberry all over his face. It takes him a moment to focus his gaze on us, but he then proceeds to say his goodbyes to the girl. Eric readjusts his jacket and tugs at the front like he’s trying to make himself look bigger. Gabe doesn’t seem intimidated by it at all. “Ah, what a day to be alive!” Gabe says exasperatedly. He opens his arms to no one in particular like he’d want to embrace the world, and then just stands still, expecting to be admired.

“How high are you right now?” I ask, foreboding just a little. When he called Eric’s apartment, after having called my place and getting told by Keltie where I was, he simply said that he didn’t remember much of the past three days and needed some new pants because the ones he was wearing had spunk marks at the crotch. Gabe had expressed a looming suspicion that the mess hadn’t been made by him, and I told him to shut up and give me the address. Eric reluctantly came along with a pair of his second class jeans that he is now looking at longingly, probably thinking that he made the wrong call letting Gabe wear those.

“From one to ten?” Gabe asks and then grins wildly. “Eleven.”

“Brilliant,” Eric notes sourly, voice dripping sarcasm.

“Aw, just kidding! Eric, god, you gotta relax,” Gabe says, wraps his arms over our shoulders and starts pushing us down the street. It’s a bright, cloudless day and the air’s got just a bit of a bite to it. Gabe gets sunglasses out of his breast pocket and pushes them up the bridge of his nose. “God, I’m starving. God. That’s what you get for trying to live out on loving alone.” He chuckles joyfully, and he smells like it – sex. Also old booze and cigarettes and perfume and cologne, but definitely sex. “What you been up to, then?”

“Well,” Eric says, “I’ve actually been talking to this Englishman who wants to open an Eric’s in London. Go international.”

“Good one,” Gabe says, and there’s no mockery in his tone at all. “Ry?”

“Same old, same old.”

“Bullshit,” he says instantly, and he lets go of me, holding onto Eric and stepping back a little. He gives me the onceover, then nudges Eric. “What’s he not telling me?”

“A lot of things, one should hope.”

I’m quirking an eyebrow at him, wondering where he’s going with this. “You look less... brooding. Doesn’t he look like a bit less like a miserable cunt right now? Or is it the light just landing on his face in a funny way?” Gabe looks up into the sky wonderingly.

“Fuck you, Saporta,” I bite, and he laughs brightly. I get out a cigarette and start heading down Pineapple Street, such a happy place, sure, there should be palm trees here or _something_.

“Hermano,” Gabe says when he’s reached me, again wrapping an arm around my shoulders. “I’m just teasing you.”

I know, I know, and I nod to indicate it too. He snatches my cigarette, and Eric catches up with us, asking what the grand plan now is. Gabe says he’d like to keep partying, and the three of us move in the midst of New Yorkers carrying Christmas shopping bags, looking stressed out and pale. It’s like we aren’t a part of their world at all. I can’t remember the last time I didn’t spend Christmas alone in a bar, and it’s not because of lack of invites – god, there’s always dozens, come to this party, come play at this Christmas charity show, poor Vicky’s covered in the avalanche of them. I just don’t like Christmas and anything that it represents. I’ve met Keltie’s parents only briefly last summer, and they seemed nice enough, and while I could have stayed behind and spent Christmas boozing with Gabe, I chose not to. This year, it’s different, and I thought I actually might stuff my face with turkey for once. Sit at that table and not feel like a freak.

Brendon better not disappear while I’m gone. He better not take the opportunity to vanish, grab Shane by the sleeve, get into that shitty van and run for it. God, he- He wouldn’t, would he?

No. No, he wouldn’t. He’s settled here. William’s visiting. I’m paranoid for no reason when I don’t need to be, and after all... he’ll probably be waiting to hear of my return. He’ll lie there at night next to Shane, sleepless and anxious, staring at the ceiling, thinking of me. He can’t help it. He’s starting to get that.

Good.

It’s still mildly disconcerting that Gabe can take one look at me and see that something’s up. It must be the drugs. Nothing’s up. Nothing, except for how the world is an amazing place, how it is great to be alive today, and fuck, I’m glad I haven’t died yet.

“Well, there’s one,” Eric says, voice full of disinterest.

“It’ll do!” Gabe says, grabbing my sleeve and walking me through a door, and I expect to find myself in a bar, my throat feeling dry and excited at the thought of a drink, but it’s just a restaurant. My stomach grumbles, however, at the smell of garlic and basil whiffing in the air, and a waitress is already showing us to a booth. The vinyl squeaks when we sit down, Eric opposite Gabe and I. “Ryan?” Gabe asks from next to me. He’s giving me a devilish grin. “You paying?”

I shrug. “Sure.”

“Score,” he says, wiggles his eyebrows, opens the menu and asks if anyone else wants some cheesy garlic bread.

“The state of the music industry today,” Eric says, elbows on the table as he leans over conspiratorially, and he seeks eye contact with me, which I grant. His mouth is moving, I’m nodding, but I hear nothing. “And if we look at the quarterly sales –”

“I want a glass of sangria! Ry? Eric?”

“– after the tax reductions, and cassette sales are on the up, you know. Cassettes aren’t going anywhere, let me tell you –”

“They don’t have sangria. Is it Italian?”

“There is some talk of _portable_ cassette players, Ryan. Imagine that!”

“Is it Spanish, then?”

“Being able to – I don’t know! Sit on a bus and listen to music!”

“Pizza or pasta? Pasta or pizza? Toss a coin? Anybody got a coin?”

“Hey and welcome to Luigi’s,” a voice cuts through the noise scratching at my ears, and I feel my insides dropping like I’m on a rollercoaster ride that’s taken an abrupt dip downwards. I’ve been slouching in the booth, stuck between the wall and Gabe, but I instantly make a valiant effort to sit up straighter though that’s all it ends up being, really – an effort. I stare and I don’t need a mirror to know that I’m looking at him wide-eyed and stunned, mouth hanging open.

No one’s noticed. Not even him. He adds, “My name’s Brendon, and I’ll be your waiter today.” He’s speaking into his notepad in a bored and rehearsed manner, though he flashes a quick smile to our general direction. He’s wearing a smart looking black button shirt with a red _Luigi’s_ logo over his heart, accompanied by a small, smiling man holding a pizza with a victorious grin. He’s got a nominal burgundy apron around his waist, matching the interior of the restaurant. I didn’t care to even take the place in when we first arrived – it’s just a standard Italian restaurant somewhere in Brooklyn, nothing fancy, not exactly a dump either. The beginnings of a moustache on his upper lip are now gone, and he looks well groomed and, well – like a waiter. Except that I cannot wrap my mind around him as one. “Can I get you anything to drink?” he enquires.

“Yeah, could I get a double vodka and Coke, easy on the Coke?” Gabe is so into his efforts of not totally coming down from his high that he hasn’t noticed Brendon yet.

“Sure thing,” Brendon says, scribbles something onto the notepad and looks up.

I want the ground to swallow me whole the second he spots me, eyes widening and instantly flying over Eric and Gabe, and then back to me. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t jump back or as much as flinch, but this look suddenly clouds his face, and his pupils narrow down into tiny black dots boring into me. His left eyebrow twitches, and my mouth is still open but nothing smart is coming out.

“Um. Hi,” I manage, and my companions stop to look up from their menus.

“Oh,” Gabe now says. He looks pleasantly surprised. “Hey, Bren! Wow, you –”

“Hi,” Brendon says, speaking to me directly, and his tone is icy.

“We just stumbled in for lunch,” I explain, like that’s not obvious anyway, seeing as we’re sitting in the booth with menus open. Eric is looking at Brendon like he’s desperately trying to place him but can’t quite figure out where. Gabe’s got a shit-eating grin on his face, and I end up trying to stomp his foot under the table in order for him to _stop_.

“Sure,” Brendon says, and it’s so even that it cannot be a good sign. His face suddenly is overtaken by cold professionalism. “So. Anything to drink?”

“I’ll have a glass of the house red and some still water, please,” Eric says, and Brendon again makes a note.

“And you, Ryan?” He looks at me calmly, but the skin around his mouth looks like it’s been stretched thin. For some fucked up reason, I want to get up and leave.

“I’m good.”

“You don’t want anything to drink?”

“No, I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

“Yes,” I say through gritted teeth, hanging my head and feeling my pockets for a cigarette. Brendon walks off without another word, and Gabe is elbowing me in the ribs in some sort of ‘Look who it is, eh? Eh?’ gesture, and I ignore him and inhale smoke deep into my lungs. I then feel my pockets for my loyal G.R.R. III, but the flask is not there. I must have forgotten it at home. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“Where do I know him from?” Eric says, voice searching.

“Shane’s roommate,” I supply emptily.

“Oh yeah!”

“Ryan’s former busmate,” Gabe adds, and Eric frowns but then just turns to the menu. Right now, Gabe needs to shut the hell up.

Eric mumbles to himself as he peers at the menu, and Gabe tries to engage me in a hushed conversation that he attempts to start with a wink and, “How about a quickie in the toilets with the hot waiter, huh?” I ignore them both and wish I had booze. I can’t believe this. It was luck that we met at Eric’s party, and I appreciate it, but I think I’ve had enough of it now. Out of all the fucking stupid restaurants...

The sadistic cherubs must be rolling around laughing on their pillowy clouds, baby fat cushioning the impact. I was kind of getting there. I was too, the other day at the practice space... And I’ve tried so hard to make him at least semi-happy, but now the advancement has clearly gotten nuked.

“You guys ready to order?” Brendon asks when he comes back, setting down the guys’ drinks. His voice is heavy with sarcasm. It’s practically dribbling down his chin whenever he speaks, and he’s keeping his head held high like he’s got nothing to be ashamed of. I never said there was, did I? Just that this was a waste of his talent. That’s all. Eric goes for a pizza of some kind. Gabe makes innuendo jokes about salami before ordering a pizza too. Gabe isn’t trying to flirt with Brendon, not really because Gabe wouldn’t openly flirt with guys if someone like Eric might witness it, but Gabe is trying to be suave and get something across, and I can see the moment when it hits home because sparks of anger flicker in Brendon’s eyes and he looks momentarily embarrassed. That Gabe knows. That it’s obvious I’ve told Gabe that I used to sleep with him.

Brendon can be angry and pissed off and mad and any other synonym, but I don’t – I don’t want him to be embarrassed by it. We had a good thing. Didn’t we? Kind of. It was working for me, anyway. It wasn’t perfect, but it’s not like it’s worth feeling humiliated about. I never humiliated him.

“I don’t want anything, thanks,” I say because he’s now waiting for me.

He quirks an eyebrow. “You came in for lunch but don’t want anything to eat?”

“No. I’m fine.“

“Suit yourself,” he practically snaps, and his eyes quickly dart to the side where a middle-aged man in a similar uniform is looking at Brendon suspiciously, twirling the left tip of his black moustache. Brendon wavers and ducks his head in what looks like submission. “I’ll be back with the order shortly.”

I nervously flick my cigarette above the ashtray, heart racing. I know what he’s thinking. Actually, I don’t have the faintest idea as to what he’s thinking, but it’s not anything good, that’s for sure. Gabe’s finally silenced, maybe sensing that now is not a good time to be smart. Eric looks bored because he doesn’t want to converse with Gabe and I’m being anti-social. I watch Brendon make his way around the restaurant, and he’s persistently not looking our way, but there’s something hurt in the way he walks. I did that.

“Fuck,” I sigh, grab Gabe’s drink and gulp it down. I run fingers through my hair. “Fuck.”

Eric asks, “What’s your problem?”

“None of your business,” I snap moodily. Something’s expanding in my chest painfully, pushing against my ribs and giving me a headache. “Gabe, move.”

Gabe does, and I exit the booth, shoes hitting the cheap linoleum floor. Brendon’s on his way to the kitchen, carrying heavy looking plates, and I reach the doors when he does. “Bren, look,” I say, blocking his way, and he stops, balancing dirty places with surprising skill.

“I’m working,” he says, and the way he says it, spitting it out, is as good as him telling me to fuck off. He passes me and enters the kitchen, the double doors swinging. I follow without a second’s hesitation, feeling the temperature rise in the kitchen that’s full of clanging from pots and pans.

“You’re pissed off,” I say, following him in the busy mess of chefs.

“No, really?” he asks, and I don’t need to see his face to imagine the deathly glare he’d want to give me.

“I didn’t mean to upset you, alright?” I say, which is as much of an apology as he’s going to get out of me. I don’t _need_ to apologise when I’ve done nothing, but I’ll humour him this once. He just needs to relax and go back to smiling at me already. It’s nice seeing him. I didn’t think we would see each other again before the holidays, so this is nice, and he should smile and talk and laugh. Goddammit, I haven’t been suffering just to lose him now for something this stupid.

Brendon puts the plates down on a table with towering heaps of dirty dishes, and he glances at me over his shoulder. “You can’t be here.”

“Look, we just walked in, alright? I didn’t know, and had I known, I really wouldn’t have come.”

“Yeah. This is just a coincidence. Like the party and the exhibition and the ice rink and the mic night –”

“I’ve told you that I came to see you play,” I say through gritted teeth, finding his attack wholly unfair. “And the last time I checked, it was a damn good thing that I came too and dragged Ian out of there with you! And as for the others, well fuck! What do you want me to say? That I’ve gone out of my way to see you?” I hold my breath, mind buzzing. He looks surprisingly wide-eyed. “If I said that I’ve been trying to see you, then what?” My eyes are drawn to his lips automatically, and he parts them like he wants to say something but has forgotten what. A part of my brain is telling me that I’m making a scene for a damn waiter somewhere in Brooklyn, but then it’s him, it’s Brendon, and that changes all the rules. I can hear the thumping of my heart from the rush of blood and adrenalin, and maybe if I pulled him aside right now, kissed him until he got it.

“You still didn’t have to come to my workplace to mock me,” he hisses, and the way he chooses not to acknowledge what I just said feels like an arrow piercing my side.

“I’m not mocking you,” I say tiredly, realising that this is not it. Whatever I’m waiting for. A bit of hope. It feels like a stalemate, and he looks indignant and closed off, angry at me for what appears to be paranoia on his part, that I take enjoyment in his misery, and I don’t know what I’m even trying to achieve here anymore. “Goddammit, Brendon,” I breathe out, rubbing my face with one hand. “I don’t know what you want.”

“What makes you think I want anything?”

Easy. Your smile. The way you fucking smile and the way your shoulders tense up when I’m close and the way I’m circling you and you know it, you fucking know it but aren’t running away. The way you shift restlessly if I stare for too long, when I can almost taste your skin, distant memories fresh on my mind, and the way your eyes sparkle when I say something remotely funny. But you keep knocking me down and pulling me back up, and you want something. I might not know exactly what it is, but I’ve got a few ideas.

I don’t say any of this, though, because he’d be too quick to deny it, realise that he’s been letting himself slip, and that’d be it. My window of opportunity gone.

Someone rings a small bell. “Bren, table five’s ready!”

He looks startled and worried and stressed out. “I’ve got work to do.”

“I’ve done nothing wrong here,” I tell him persistently. “Brendon, for fuck’s sake.”

“Just leave,” he requests just as someone calls out his name boomingly and clearly unhappily. He glances a look over my shoulder, almost like he’s afraid of everything right now, including me. And the world’s a shitty place, we both know that, but I’m one thing he should not feel threatened by. We’re on the same side, but he just doesn’t seem to get that.

“Well, tell me what it is that you think I’ve done wrong! Don’t leave me in the dark here!” I snap angrily. I’ll drive myself insane with this otherwise, if it’s just his pride again, or if he thinks I really want to humiliate him, or if I said too much, or all of the above. I can’t fix it if I don’t know.

He seems to think about it for a second before he shakes his head a little, face void of laughter, eyes full of something solemn and almost sad. “I just thought you’d changed. That’s all.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I enquire, but he doesn’t reply, just pushes past me and gets back to work. A chef is looking at me suspiciously, and I fret nervously, confused and irritated. “What the hell does that mean?!” I call out louder, but with no effect.

Instead of making my way back to my party, I shove a tomato chopping kid out of the way, leaving Brendon to balance full plates onto his arms, to wait on fucking ugly bastards with heart diseases and swollen up bowels full of fat, and fuck him, fuck him, fuck him, fuck him, and I march across the restaurant, my spine drawn up so tight that it might break in two, and I storm out of the place, because I will not sit there and let him play with me, I will not stand for it, and did he just –

I stop in a street corner and take in a deep breath. The East River is glistening in bright afternoon sunshine, a glimpse of it visible in the distance from between two buildings.

Just wait a few hours, just wait, and this afternoon will be gone with all of its shit, slipping off the horizon along with the sun.

If only it was that easy.


	6. Under Your Skin

I’ve never bought anyone flowers, and I’m not starting now, even if the roses on the other side of the display window do cross my mind for a second. I’m not buying a _guy_ flowers. I will, however, go back to that fucking restaurant and make up with him. Say that we had a disagreement for no real reason. Because going there will prove that I’m different.

It’s hard to detect change when time doesn’t stop. There are no actual chapters in life, and yeah, I can look back and think that I’m different, but when the change occurred or how it came about aren’t as easy to answer. Change is gradual. And I don’t know what parts of me have transformed into something else, but I’m pretty sure that a few years back I wouldn’t have gone to try and make up. Maybe he’ll know that. But I’m not going to grovel. I’ll simply go in and say my piece – sorry about yesterday, didn’t mean to cause a scene at your work, I couldn’t really sleep with things between us being as they are, so you know, here I am, and now I’m going, happy holidays.

Keep it concise.

If I left it until later, he’d get weeks to brew his resentment. This way he can think about how sorry I seemed instead of how I yelled at him in the kitchen. It’s got to be worth something, though I know that it’s a long shot, that tonight might be Brendon’s night off, but at least I can ask if he’ll have more shifts before I fly to Canada. Or maybe write a letter. I should really find out where he lives.

The restaurant is still there, a smiling fat Italian guy painted on one of the windows – Luigi, I suppose. Whereas yesterday was sunny, today is not, and wet snow keeps falling on me from the darkening sky. I shake it off and check my reflection in the restaurant window before walking in, my eyes adjusting to the darker setting with a few blinks. A brunette waitress spots me, navigating between tables and smiling at me. “Hi! Table for one?”

“Is Brendon working today?” I ask and look over her shoulder, but I don’t see him. When my eyes find hers, she looks tensed up. “What?”

“He. Um.” She shifts restlessly. “He doesn’t work here anymore.”

Well, she’s a fucking liar. Brendon probably put her up to this. “He does. I came here yesterday and he was here, so.” I put as much authority as I can into my words.

She scratches her cheek with one finger, looking uncomfortable. “He got fired. Like an hour ago.”

“Fired?” I repeat, and she nods. “ _Fired_ fired?” Another affirmative. Her cheeks redden like the memory is still too fresh on her mind and is making her embarrassed for everyone involved. I wonder if there was a scene. Brendon _would_ cause a scene.

“You still coming in to eat?” she asks cheerfully, clearly keen to change the subject.

“No. Thanks.” The speech I had prepared has magically vanished. What the hell did he do to get fired? He seemed like an alright waiter. He was standing there, full of an honest job’s arrogance, like he had no problem waiting on tables – in general, of course, because he sure as hell was pissed off that we had come. And now this?

I give the girl a parting nod and turn back around, not sure what to do. “Hey,” she calls after me, and I look at her in hopes of another grain of information or gossip or hearsay. “There’s a bar on Poplar Street, called Seven Horses. Try there.” She shrugs a little. “Brendon could probably do with a bit of cheering up.”

“Sure. Thanks.”

As I leave, her eyes widen like at that precise moment she recognises me, but by then it’s too late.

A Santa is walking on the street outside, ho ho hoing, and a little boy runs up to him with stars in his eyes like it’s the real deal. I intend to walk straight to the subway and go home, but I don’t. Instead I walk around, making no conscious decision at all except for how I know that I do, and then a street sign tells me I’m on Poplar Street. I look left and right, figure it doesn’t make a fucking difference because a needle in a haystack is always a needle in a haystack, and it doesn’t matter if you flip the haystack around.

Seven Horses, it turns out, was in the opposite direction to where I initially headed, but twenty minutes later it’s there in front of me, with a dark green facade and a painted horse’s head on the sign hanging above the door. It looks like it’s trying to be an imitation of an English or Irish or Scottish pub, but Americans never get it right. The bars lack the native people, for one thing, which means they don’t have a tenth of the authentic atmosphere. I’ve certainly spent enough time in London pubs to know that.

The bar is mostly dead. A jukebox stands in the corner, and a forlorn looking guy with a huge beard is going through his pockets for coins. The dark oak furniture looks dusty and the lamps hang too low from the ceiling, and I walk over to the bar where a Union Jack has been nailed to the wall and is miserably hanging behind the bartender, who immediately smiles at me like he’s the only one left to keep the spirits up.

“What can I get you?” he asks. I look around the bar and towards the back and – There. Alone in a small booth, leaning over the table like gravity’s pulling him down, shoulders slumped. There.

“A beer. No, make it two.”

I dangle the bottles between my fingers as I make my way over, hearing the jukebox come to life and a sad blues song crackling through the bar. “Mind if I sit here?” I ask, and Brendon lifts his head a bit too abruptly. Three empty glasses stand on his table. He’s got a head start for sure.

“What are you doing here?” he asks groggily like he’s just woken up, and he even blinks too much to heighten the impression.

“This girl at the restaurant said you’d be here.”

“Oh.”

I patiently count to three in my head. “So. May I?”

He jerks a little like he’s only now processing my words. “Sure. Yeah.” He motions at the other side of the booth, and whereas Luigi’s had vinyl seats, these booths are wooden.

I sit down across from him and offer him the other bottle. He takes it with a small smile, and I bring my own to my lips. “A bad day?”

He laughs, resting the bottle’s mouth against his lips. “You could say that.” He takes a sip and catches the residue on his lips with his tongue. It leaves his lower lip shiny. He probably knows that I’ve heard the news – well, of course he does – and he shakes his head and heaves a sigh. “Bastard, that guy. Tony. A fucking bastard.”

“Did he, uh...” I start, leaning back in the booth and unbuttoning my jacket. His eyes follow my fingers, and I forgot what I meant to say. I quickly pull my arms out of the sleeves and then lean back in, elbows on the table. “Did he find out about Shane, then?”

“Shane?” he asks, tasting the word on his tongue like it’s foreign to him.

“Roommate. Not roommate.”

His eyes widen in realisation, and he ducks his head. Hair falls out of place, and my fingers itch, and I look over to the barkeep, wonder if he’d notice if I reached out, if the guy by the jukebox would, if the few other bored looking men lingering at the bar would. But they all seem lost in their own thoughts, and no one is paying attention to Brendon and me. I let my hand move forward an inch and hover in the air, and then I pull it back and focus on holding my beer.

“No,” he then says and looks back up. “Nothing to do with that. This time.” He sounds just as angry as he did some years ago when he recalled the jobs he had lost because of rumours that he was a faggot. He rubs his face and grimaces slightly, unpleasant memories clearly flashing through his mind. “I was just late. Again.”

“That’s it?”

He takes in a deep breath. “And then I told a customer to stuff the spaghetti and meatballs up his ass.” He finishes half the bottle in one swig. I try to keep my face straight but clearly fail because when he puts the bottle down, he glances at me and says, “It’s not funny.”

“No. It’s not.” My voice is full of barely hidden laughter, and he shoots me a glare, but the corners of his eyes are wrinkling.

“It’s very serious.”

“It is. I’m sure.”

He breaks into a grin, fingers nervously picking at the bottle’s label, and I let myself laugh. Back when we were trying to get the band going in LA, I never held onto a job for very long, but I certainly never lost one for something like that.

“The asshole kept talking to me like I was his servant or some shit,” he now says in his defence, and the smile fades slightly.

“Yeah,” I say, my laughter dying out. It must have hurt. Not that he says it, but something about the situation clearly touched a nerve. That and a bad day, and the older version of Brendon rears its head, the one that felt free to tell pretty much anyone to go fuck themselves, me included. Brendon doesn’t seem to think it’s an accomplishment, though.

He sighs. “I really needed that fucking job.”

“New York’s full of jobs.”

“Yeah, but I –” He looks up. “What were you doing there?” It seems like it’s only occurred to him now that my presence can be considered a bit odd.

“Came to apologise for yesterday,” I say honestly, without pausing to think about it, without hesitating or considering possible lies. I think I’m more surprised than he looks. “I just.” It feels like something’s stuck to my throat, and I try to swallow it down. “I didn’t want to leave things like that.”

“Who remembers yesterday anymore, right?” he asks and finishes the bottle. I remember yesterday. He does too. And the day before that and the day before that to all the days, to things like him, Jon and Jon’s bandmates playing poker in a hotel room or him sucking me off for the first time in the back of the tour bus, my hips bucking pathetically like I’d never been blown before. And then a snap of your fingers and it’s all gone, transforming from something that happened to you into a memory, but I know we both still remember. There were times when I wished I didn’t. Right now isn’t one of those times. Right now, I feel like I’m back to controlling this thing with him and me. “Besides,” he then says, “I’ve got this whole unemployed thing to think about now.” He’s eyeing my beer bottle wistfully.

“How about I get us a bottle of whiskey?”

He looks at me, wide-eyed, in some fucked up way reminiscent of the way he looked in the middle of sex sometimes, when I pushed in deeper and he didn’t realise I wasn’t in all the way yet. A sudden awareness washes over me, putting back something shattered inside.

“Yeah,” he then says, voice lower than before. “Whiskey’d be great.” He smiles and then digs out a pack of cigarettes.

When I come back with a bottle and two glasses, he’s humming along to The Beatles song coming from the jukebox. The cigarette moves up and down between his lips, and I fill our glasses, trying to keep my hand from shaking. Like I’m nervous. No, not nervous. Just excited, maybe. Anxious. Impatient. Victorious.

He quietly sings, “There’s no one that compares to you,” takes the cigarette from his lips and offers it to me with a quirked eyebrow.

“Thanks,” I say, taking it to my lips. Exchanging saliva.

“Bottoms up,” he says and drinks all the whiskey in one go. He moves further into the booth until his back is resting against the wall, and he brings his feet up onto the seat, resting his arms against his knees. He laughs at nothing, it seems, his head rolling to the side, hair falling in front of his eyes, and he looks at me with a smile. It’s not warmth but fucking fire that scorches at my insides, and I have to breathe faster because I’m not getting enough oxygen, but I smile back a little – not too much and not a full blown grin. Try not to show all of it. Let him do the fucking guessing for once.

“I was hoping for a Christmas bonus,” he says and snorts. “Can say bye to that, right?” He extends the glass my way, and I fill it up. “Fuck. Fuck, Shane’s going to be pissed.” He drinks it all on the first and coughs for a second.

“Were you happy there?” I ask, still smoking his cigarette.

“No.”

“Then he should be happy for you.”

Brendon laughs like I just made a joke. Shane lacks vision, which is ironic considering that he’s trying to be a director. But he lacks vision when it comes to Brendon. Fuck, this guy could be anything he chooses, and Shane doesn’t get that. If he thinks Brendon’s better off as a waiter, then fuck him.

Maybe Brendon senses my thoughts, maybe not, but he says, “Christmas is just an expensive time of the year.” It sounds final, like he doesn’t want to say anything more on it, and I really don’t feel like talking about his boyfriend either. No, right now Shane is the one topic that I need to make Brendon forget. That Shane even exists. I’ll be damned if I let the mere fact of Shane’s existence ruin this for me.

I let him drink and smoke excessively, and I drink and I smoke, but not too much. After all these years of alcohol, it takes a lot to get me drunk. Brendon, well, he’s kind of drunk. He’s getting drunker. But he’s laughing and talking and motioning with his hands, and he bums quarters off of me and goes to the jukebox and comes back with sparkling eyes and says that he loves this song, and it’s ABBA, and he tells me not to judge, and I lift my hands and say that I didn’t say anything and that my girlfriend’s a major ABBA lover, so really, I don’t judge.

“Keltie,” he says, nods, and takes a deep drag. “You love her?”

Yeah. He’s definitely drunk. “Of course I do,” I say automatically, then regret ever mentioning her. I need to make her evaporate too, until it’s just me and Brendon, and that makes us free, that gives us the right to do whatever we feel like is right for us. Not for anyone else.

“You must have changed,” he says, and I wonder if that’s what he meant yesterday, if he was referring to my capacity to feel for others. Lust, envy, dislike, love. Maybe just love. And for a second my insides feel frozen, and he seems to understand through his alcoholic haze that his words might sound like he’s referring to. Well. Us. “The, uh,” he says, laughs, motions vaguely with his hand. “You just once told me that, that you don’t love.”

“When have I ever said that?”

“I don’t remember. But you did. And I believed you, for what it’s worth. In the end, I believed you.” He tries to take another sip, but his glass is empty.

“Love is a human condition. No one can escape it.”

He shrugs, now fiddling with his dying lighter. His brows knit together, and sparks ignite but a flame doesn’t emerge, and I lean over the table and flick my own lighter. He takes my hand, pulling it close to his mouth where his cigarette is waiting, the hardened tips of his fingers sliding across the back of my hand where bluish veins circuit under the pale skin. His cigarette lights up. I lift my thumb, and the flame dies. He’s not looking at the cigarette. He’s not looking me in the eyes. I lick my lower lip, and he exhales shakily, eyes still on my mouth. He looks like his world has slowed down. He’d hide it a lot better sober.

I sit back down, the lighter still in my fist as my arm lowers, my hand resting on the table. His hand is still holding mine, and then he jerks. “Sorry,” he says, voice rough, and removes his hand, warm against my own, little electric pulses dancing over my skin. We’ve drunk half the bottle. Well, he has, mostly.

“You look good these days,” I tell him.

His cheeks look redder and his pupils wider, and he bites on his lower lip, worrying the flesh with his teeth until it’s puffy and shiny. He’s no idea how fucking seductive that is.

“You too,” he says, and he casts a quick look my way, as if to read my reaction.

I let myself smile at the compliment and pour myself another. “So. Looking forward to David’s new album? Coming out next month.”

“God, yes,” he says and gets into it, and he’s got a way to him. It can’t be explained, but he’s got charisma, even now, and I stop giving a fuck and let myself get pulled into the conversation about music because it’s my passion in life as well as his. And when he’s passionate about something, he’s even more beautiful. He kicks my feet under the table when I say that _Station to Station_ didn’t impress me much, calling me obnoxious and arrogant, and I tell him that the new album’s got a lot more depth, which I know because I’ve heard it already.

“Contacts,” I shrug.

“Fucker,” he says through a grin, and our hands are on the table, an inch between our fingers. We keep sharing cigarettes. We don’t have to; we’ve both got our own.

After a good while – a damn good while, I’ve lost track of time, but the ashtray’s full – he says, “I might be a bit too drunk.” He looks at me and laughs.

“That’s no good,” I smirk. I pass him the cigarette, blowing smoke through my lips. I watch his face through the haze, feeling something in me expand. I’ve been worrying for nothing. I’ve been driving myself insane for nothing. “I remember this one time you came to my hotel room drunk out of your head. We were meant to fuck, but you ended up puking in the bathroom instead.”

His cheeks get coloured crimson, but he smiles down at the table. “Not one of my finest moments.” He takes in a deep breath. “Fuck, that summer...” His middle finger brushes mine, and I move my hand closer, letting the tips of our fingers lace together. He doesn’t say anything of it. Neither do I, even if I feel his warmth all the way to my bones. He smokes the cigarette with his free hand, then stubs it out. His thumb brushes the side of my forefinger. He doesn’t seem to be aware of it until he is, and tension sets into his shoulders but he doesn’t move his hand.

“We should get out of here,” I tell him, and he starts slightly. I pull my hand back, his touch vanishing and my insides protesting the sudden loss as I point upwards with my forefinger. “Playing Sonny & Cher. Whenever a place starts playing this shit, you know it’s time to go.”

He eyes the whiskey bottle, a quarter of it left. “Yeah.” He breathes in unevenly, and something’s buzzing under his skin. “Okay.”

I feel the weight of the alcohol when I stand up, but I manage to move gracefully, or at least I think I’m graceful. I get my jacket on, and Brendon’s standing up too but struggling with his own, like he doesn’t remember how buttons work anymore.

“C’mere,” I grin, grab the collar and pull him over. He matches my grin and his pupils look blown, blown, blown, and I can smell him, shampoo or cologne or something, and he keeps looking at me like he’s never seen me before. I button his jacket for him, starting from the top, over his chest, down his stomach, the last one at his crotch. He stays astoundingly still for someone who’s as drunk as he is. I let my hands fall to the sides and nod towards the door. Sign language. It takes him a moment to register the gesture, but he nods, cheeks rosier, eyes dark, and I lift a hand towards the bartender as a goodbye.

It’s stopped snowing and the sun has set, but the streetlights compete with the darkening twilight. I start walking to the direction I came from, my steps slower than slow, and Brendon walks next to me, our feet trampling snow that’s already been trampled. The street is less busy than before because the stores are closed, but we don’t stand out in the midst of people who probably should be home by now. “Huh,” he says, for whatever reason, and he stumbles a little.

“You alright?” I ask, steadying him with a hand to his shoulder. We stop in the corner, and he does a shaky nod, stepping closer to me. My hand slides to the side of his neck. His skin is warm. His breaths are shallow, and he seems overly aware of everything.

He asks, “What time is it?”

“Eight. Nine. Not late yet.” My thumb rests on a vein on his neck, and I can feel his pulse, rapid and feverish.

“Shane’s finished his shift at Eric’s, then.” He pulls in cold air and then smiles to himself drunkenly. “He’ll be at the gallery now.”

“Not waiting for you at home.”

“No.”

He’s standing close to me, waiting. I can sense it. See it in his eyes. That he’s waiting.

A taxi’s coming down the street, a spot of yellow amongst the sandstone background, and I step to the side of the street and put my arm up. The taxi comes to a stop next to us. “You live far from here?” I ask, and he shakes his head. I can still feel his skin against my palm, the way it fucking radiated, practically saying it’s mine. I take in a calming breath. “You got money for the taxi?” He looks confused, and I open the backdoor. “I’m gonna take the subway back, so you can take this one. You’re too drunk to walk home.”

His confusion clears off quickly, though not very well in his state. “Yeah, uh. Sure. I mean.” He looks at the taxi as if seeing it for the first time, then he looks at me, startled, and then he kicks into motion and gets in. Even in the backseat he looks befuddled, but he’s clearly trying damn hard to sober up a bit. The invitation is still there in his eyes, and he looks at my lips rather than my eyes. “Um. Thanks.”

“Get home safe,” I say and close the door. The taxi takes off instantly, heading down the street, and my hands are sweating and my heart is hammering and my skin feels electric, and I get out my last cigarette with a trembling hand, light it, and smoke the entire thing in the space of a minute, slowly calming down.

The hardest thing I’ve ever done.

Plant a seed. Watch it grow.

I start looking for a subway station, trying not to grin.

* * *

Two days. Forty-eight hours. Or less, really, because it’s in the afternoon that I become aware of the knocking on my door. I only hear it because the record comes to an end, the needle lifting with a static sound, and the living room grows quiet once more. My suitcase’s open on the couch that Ian slept on that one time, an oddly shaped present on top of everything that I’ve thrown in. It’s something for Keltie’s mother. I forget what it is.

But then the knock is there, and I try to fix my hair that’s still wet from a shower. I grab the first shirt that’s on top of the suitcase, sliding it on as I make my way to the door. Forty-one hours, maybe? Time has ceased to matter lately. If it’s Gabe, I’ll punch him, because forty-one hours of patience isn’t easy. I’ve spent a month being patient, but the past few days have been the hardest.

The knock sounds melodic, like it’s following a pattern or a tune that ends up indistinguishable, and I let my shirt hang open in case it _is_ Gabe, let him see a slice of the body that he most certainly will never have.

I open the door.

It finally clicks into place. Everything.

“Um. Hi,” Brendon says, standing there, looking terrified like a mouse about to step into a trap, and he’s beautiful. He’s here. His eyes fly up and down my form. “Is – Is this a bad time?”

“No. God, not at all.” I open the door further and motion him to step in.

He’s got his red scarf in his hands, knuckles white around the thick cotton. He clears his throat, like he’s trying to keep a professional line. I close the door after him and do one button above my navel, the plain white dress shirt hanging on me though it’s a perfect fit at the shoulders. He looks at my bare feet and black jeans, and I say, “Just got out of a shower.”

His eyes linger at my neck, but he says nothing about the chain. Instead he says, “Huh.” He swallows hard and averts his gaze. “I came to pick up Shane’s camera. The one he forgot in the practice room. Jon told him you brought it back here.” His voice is searching like he wants me to confirm all of this, and I do with a nod.

“Shane said he’d pick it up,” I say as I lead us to the living room.

“I was in the neighbourhood.”

“Oh.”

My living room looks like it’s been hit by a hurricane, the floor littered by records out of their sleeves, shiny black discs everywhere, a few broken. The suitcase is overflowing with clothes, and the ones I’ve discarded are now on the floor and any near-by furniture, surrounded by empty liquor bottles, dirty glasses, full ashtrays, a stash of weed on the coffee table, and I really should have cleaned up.

“A bit messier than last time,” he observes. Yeah. Clearly Keltie hasn’t visited in a while and called up that cleaning service again.

“The camera’s somewhere in here,” I say and then just stand still, no idea where to start looking. I have a feeling it’s by the TV and the windows, but why bother looking for it when Brendon’s not here for it? Because I know why he’s here, and it’s not for Shane’s camera. He fidgets, but his pupils look blown when he looks at me.

“Look, I was kind of drunk the other night –” he starts, and I instantly cut him off with, “Hey, it happens. Don’t worry about it.” I look at him and smile calmly. “You didn’t dance on tables in case you were worried.”

He laughs embarrassedly and lifts his eyebrows like he wouldn’t be surprised if he had. “Yeah...”

“You want a beer?”

He looks like I’ve asked something a lot more complicated than that. And I have. “Yeah. Thanks.”

I take him in, standing in my living room, two buttons of his winter coat undone, scarf now in one fist. He looks like he feels out of place, and there’s something to his features, something that’s got him wound up.

“This way,” I say simply. I nod towards the kitchen, and he drops his red scarf on the couch and follows. He slowly unbuttons his coat, and I press my fingernails into my palms to keep my hands where they are. The way he looks, self-conscious, might as well think he’s taking all of his clothes off. He leaves the coat hanging from the back of one of the dining chairs, and he keeps looking around nervously, like he’s not sure if he’s done a stupid thing coming here. He hasn’t.

My eyes fly over his form: black slacks, black dress shirt and a black tie. He’s either heading to a funeral or, “Job hunting?” I ask, and he flinches, nods, leans against the kitchen doorway. “How’s it going?”

“It’s going,” he says. “Or. Well, I haven’t started yet. Decided to drop by here first.”

I wonder how long he stood opposite the building, talking himself out of this when it was already too late. I open the fridge door and look at its almost gaping emptiness. “Miller or Coors?”

“Coors.”

With every word he says, my pulse picks up. It’s surreal, this moment, even if I knew it had to happen, it had to or else I would’ve – But I try to remain calm. Breathe.

I get out two bottles, rummaging the cabinets for a bottle opener for embarrassingly long, handing him the other bottle when I join him. He’s leaning against the doorframe, not that there is an actual door, just an open archway that links the dining room to the kitchen that I hardly ever use. I stay opposite him, letting my back lean against the wall structure. My toes almost touch his shoes.

He’s pale, eyes a bit scared. God, he doesn’t need to be scared. I’ve got it from here.

We drink our beers quietly, and he clearly doesn’t know where to look. Kitchen floor. Dining room table. The radio on the windowsill. Into the living room. He saw the suitcase but didn’t ask. I could tell him if he asked. Tomorrow morning. Flying out. Meeting Keltie at the airport. I could tell him.

I finish my beer quickly, without either one of us having said a word. And now. Now it’s time.

He takes a sip as I step closer. His posture immediately goes rigid. He stands up straighter, but he’s still shorter than me. His eyelashes are dark against his skin, his full bottom lip moistened by the beer. I reach out to the counter on his side and put my bottle down, using it as an excuse to take another step. My knee touches his. He doesn’t move. His breathing fills the air between us, shallow, dragged. His beer bottle is still between us, and I reach out to take it. He loosens his hold, and I look him in the eyes. He’s starting to look a bit flushed.

I knock down the rest of his beer and place the bottle next to mine. He shifts, like this limbo is killing him, and he brushes against me, legs and crotch, and I place a hand on his hip. He stills. Doesn’t say anything. Ducks his head, like he’s just going to focus on breathing.

I lean close, right into his space, until my nose touches his cheek. His breaths wash against my lips, so close I can almost taste him, and I try to hold back what could be a whine. My eyes close, and I must be bruising his hip with my too firm hold but he doesn’t say anything. The tip of my nose slides across his cheek, to his hair, and my body feels like it’s been wound up so tight, so fucking tight, and I breathe him in, my cock hardening from his scent alone.

I swallow hard. Try to think. Can’t. My hands are shaking, my heart feels like it’s on a suicide mission to die from overheating, and warmth spreads to every cell in my body. He tilts his head towards me, his wet lips briefly making contact with my cheek.

I swallow hard before I whisper, “I’m not going to kiss you.”

He jerks, a gush of air hitting my cheek. There’s a lull, a momentary silence of neither one of us moving, and then he says, “Don’t you – Because of her, you don’t?” He sounds confused. Breathless.

“That’s not what I said.” I push my hips closer until they’re pressed to his. He lets out a surprised groan. The pressure against my crotch lets me properly feel how fucking hard I am, and he must feel it too. Blood pounds in my ears and I try to remain still. “I said that _I’m_ not going to kiss you.”

I turn my head, look at him. He’s staring at me, pupils blown, mouth shiny, cheeks rosy. His eyes focus on my mouth. “I can’t,” he whispers, breathing hard, and then he kicks into motion.

He fists my hair and pulls me in, our mouths crashing, and it erupts in my chest, all of it, his taste, his hands, his touch. He kisses me hard, full of want, and I grip his hips hungrily. My mouth opens up, and our tongues meet, wet and hot. He tastes like beer and he tastes like him, and I feel like I’m right back in the backstage dressing rooms, making out with him before shows. I feel driven insane by want. He grinds up against me, frantic, and he drops one hand from my hair and slides it down my chest. The kisses are bruising and full of one thing: sex. Sex and sweat and saliva, and his nails drag downwards, making my skin flare up. “Ryan,” he groans, rushed, and undoes the single button of my shirt.

“Fuck,” I manage, pulling off my shirt that’s in the way, in the stupid fucking way, and my fingers get tangled in his hair – soft, so soft – as I pull him closer, feeling his calloused fingertips move on my back. Our mouths are loud, ungraceful, primitive, and I stumble backwards with him, trying to navigate this thing.

It’s not fast. No. Not after weeks of me thinking about this, and he’s thought about it too. It’s so fucking obvious that he has. And him and I, we have no reason to hold back. Pretend to take it slow, pretend we’re not animals when we are. And maybe he’s touched himself thinking about this. Maybe this is his fantasy coming to life. For me, this is better than any fantasy ever was: knowing how much he wants me.

I crash against a dining chair and knock it down. My hands are on his shirt, unbuttoning as fast as I can. Our mouths part with a wet pop, and he’s loosening his tie, lips swollen and red, eyes full of unhidden desire. My guts tighten painfully with lust. Fuck, what took him so long?

He drops the tie just as I pull his unbuttoned shirt from his slacks, and our teeth click together when we move in for a kiss. His lips are taunting me because I’ve missed this, he doesn’t even know how much I tried to forget him in London, Los Angeles, everywhere, then here, with guys that had full, promising looking lips that I thought, well, maybe. Maybe they’d compare.

They never did.

I swirl us around so that he’s going backwards as I push us further into the living room. Something cracks and breaks between our feet – a record, fuck it – and I push him against the wall with a bang, and he groans and sucks on my lower lip. My arm’s securely around his waist, pulling him to me so that I can feel him and – There: his hard cock under the denim, pressed against me. His breath sputters, eyelids slipping shut, and he presses the back of his head against the wall. We grind against each other, and I attack his neck, wanting to bruise, to mark him, bite him, taste him –

“Oh god,” he breathes out, heaving. He keeps rocking against me like he’s desperate to get off. I violently tug his shirt off his shoulders, pulling it off all the way, a button goes flying from the cuffs. I kiss my way back to his mouth, wet bites along his jaw line, his cologne musky and tempting. His fingers dig into my shoulder blades. He shivers, is shaking, I can feel it now. “Fuck,” he breathes out. “Ryan, fuck, you just –”

I cut him off by grabbing his head with two hands, pulling on his hair as I kiss him as hard as I can. The minimalistic restraint I had is evaporating – here he is, saying my name with such want in his voice, like I always knew he would in the end. I knew no one can change that much. Because I knew him, and he knew me, and the specifics can change but the core of a person remains the same. And it’s that that has brought him back to me.

I pull him off the wall, lost in the way he’s touching me, like he wants to devour me. God, he’s stupid for turning me on this much because I’ll never let him leave now, not when he’s shown just how much he wants me, like I want him. He made me nearly lose my mind for nothing.

I get us to the bedroom door in a tangled mess of hands and tongues, of me grabbing his ass, copping a feel, and he grinds against me hungrily, trapped between me and the door. The doorknob refuses to turn at first because I’m too busy kissing him to look, and he manages to toe off his shoes, constantly pushing his body against mine, offering, wanting me to touch him. The door gives way, and he almost falls backwards at first but I hold him to me securely. His arms are wrapped around my neck, our mouths sliding together, and we stumble to the bed, falling on it with our mouths locked. His teeth sink into my lip from the impact, and I taste blood but don’t care.

I go for his pants as he goes for my jeans, our hands knocking together, blocking, in the way. I just want him naked beneath me, want to see him exposed. He moans against my mouth as I try to tuck his pants down, having managed to unzip them, and he lifts his hips, trying to help. He’s slid my jeans halfway down my ass, and we’d be naked by now if we could stop for a second to do this in an orderly fashion but we can’t.

“Oh god,” he gasps when his hand slides over my cock, now out of my jeans, and I feel frustrated, borderline furious with his pants but then they slide down to his knees, and I can touch him, feel him. We stop squirming for a second, gasping for air. He’s leaking onto my palm, leaking _already_ , and I squeeze his shaft, cup his balls, force my hand between his legs where my fingers push between his cheeks and press to the ring of muscle, tight and dry, and god, _god_. I want to fuck him, leave him slick and open and wet with my come.

“I want to fuck you so hard,” I groan against his swollen lips, my body practically shuddering in anticipation.

His hand pulls on my cock, making me hiss, and his other is in my hair, tangled in the locks. “I want you to,” he says, voice husky and low, and I swear against his lips, my heart skipping beats, and I kick off my jeans impatiently while he does the same to the rest of his clothes.

I grind down against his naked form and our cocks brush together, and he curses into my mouth, indistinguishable and hot. I thrust against him, his cock flat against his stomach, my cock throbbing next to his, and he’s already parting his thighs, spreading his legs like a good boy, such a fucking good boy. I break our kiss, taking in his face, and he’s got this look, no, _The_ Look on his face, like he needs to seduce me at this point, but he’s not even doing it on purpose because there’s a primal urgency to his movements – he just wants me. Me. Wants me inside him, wants me to fuck him, and fuck, fuck, fuck, the last grips that I had on reality seem to fade as I kiss him hard and get the lube out with an outstretched arm to the nightstand drawer, searching from the mix of condoms, empty wrappers and lighters and picks.

“Please,” he groans, sounding far gone already. I lift myself to hover above him, and he takes the opportunity to touch my cock, moaning as he does it. Fire pools at my stomach and my cock twitches in his hand. Him sounding that hot should be forbidden. His fingertips feel hard against my heated flesh, his thumb rubbing the slit where pre-come has gathered. I can barely concentrate on my own movements, clumsily pouring lube onto my palm with only one hand and instantly reaching between our bodies to get him ready. He spreads his legs wider, and I reach between his perfect, pale cheeks, my fingers rubbing over his entrance. “Oh fuck, Ryan,” he breathes out when I push a finger into him, not stopping, not waiting, going in knuckle deep. His voice is heavy with disbelief I usually didn’t hear until I had two fingers in him and fucking him hard.

Half the work of taking a cock up your ass is mental, I’ve come to find. When a guy wants to get fucked, _really_ wants to get fucked, even a bit of spit will do and willpower will take care of the rest. And Brendon can take a cock, I know he can, but he also really, really fucking wants this right now, so prepping is just a fleeting thought in my head.

He’s barely used to the first when I work in a second finger, all the while kissing him until our lips get numb. His hole feels so tight and slick, and my cock throbs in his hand, and I just want to, need to, want to feel his muscles give way for me, force myself into him. I crook my fingers as I push them in deep, and he jerks and his mouth drops open.

“Shit, shit, _shit_ ,” he swears, hips shifting, trying to get more. He’s perspiring, a hint of salt on his upper lip when we kiss. It doesn’t really add up, how hard he is already, how much getting fingered is affecting him – doesn’t correspond to my memories of me having to work for it, having to put an effort into driving him fucking wanton. Yeah, it’s me. Obviously me and how much he fucking wants me, or then it’s just the simple result of –

I crook my fingers, and his entire body convulses again, and I muffle his helpless moan with my mouth. His muscles contract, squeezing my fingers hard. “Doesn’t he fuck you?” I ask, pushing my fingers in deeper. He’s so tight around the two digits, so fucking tight. I push my fingers into his prostate again.

He chokes on his breath. “Ryan, please.” He’s trying to control his breathing, keep it levelled. He’s failing. He attempts to move up on the bed whilst pushing me down from one shoulder, trying to buck up a little to get my cock where he clearly needs it.

“He doesn’t,” I conclude for him, torn between disbelief and contentment.

“He’s ju-just been busy,” he gasps out, and I watch the way beads of sweat are already rolling down his neck.

I almost laugh. Fuck, that’s insane. That’s a crime. I crook the fingers I have inside him, and he jerks, gasping like he’d forgotten what that feels like.

“I would _never_ be too busy to fuck you,” I say. Never. I kiss him hungrily, and he groans into the kiss, his hands in my hair, hips moving to the rhythm of my fingers. And knowing what I know, I could go slow on him, get him slickened up and loose, but I won’t. Can’t. Want him too fucking much, and he feels it too, the urgency, the fire, I know he does.

He’s taking the matter into his own hands, spreading lube on my cock, squeezing my length with slick fingers, and my fingers slip out of his hole as I choke on my breath, head spinning. I fervently grab his hips, pulling him down on the bed. His legs move to press against my sides, and both of our hands are there, mine grabbing the base of my cock as I guide it between his parted ass cheeks, and his hand at the tip, feeling me, rubbing me over him.

“God,” he moans when I press the tip of my cock to his hole. He’s so full of tension, so ready. “I can take it, I can –” he says feverishly, groaning and moving to bite on his hand when I add pressure. My cock is flushed and throbbing in my hand, leaking pre-come over his entrance. A steady rush of blood pounds in my ears, and it’s all him, his taste, his scent, and I push forward, my swollen head against his wet hole. In one, firm push, I slide inside him, every inch of my cock pushing into him.

He’s so loud. Fuck, he – And I bite his shoulder, try to muffle my groans. He feels like nothing I’ve ever felt. Nothing like I remembered. His muscles are resisting, grabbing onto me from all sides, so tight and so hot, and my balls ache, the skin drawn up so tight, and fuck, fuck, fuck –

“Oh god, oh fuck, that’s so good, Ryan, _Ryan_ –” His back arches, and overwhelming pleasure radiates to all of my body from where we’re joined. I know. God, I know, I know, I know –

I begin to fuck him, unable to stay still for longer. The back of his head presses into the pillow, and I kiss him, try to, a strand of messy saliva between our mouths as we just breathe, breathe, bodies trembling from the friction, the rhythm we get going. His ass is tight, driving me insane with how good he feels squeezing around me, how my cock pushes him open with each thrust.

“Bren,” I manage, my voice thick with want. I can’t shut up, moans and groans coming deep from my chest, from the core, and his hands keep pulling at me, grabbing me wherever and pulling like I’m not close enough. “You remember yet?” I ask, closing my eyes, my toes curling as I try to get deeper into him.

“I never forgot,” he breathes out, overwhelmed, and I feel like I’m going to come before it’s even started. Him. Brendon. Fuck, it’s too much. It’s not enough. I pound into him, desperate, intent on making him lose his fucking mind, and he matches me flawlessly, instantly, his hips moving to meet me. We figured it out. We had _this_ figured out, even if it was the only thing that seemed to work. But I forgot that it was like this. That it was this intense.

Brendon grabs the back of my head, and our lips crash together. He pulls on my arms, my shoulders, and then a hand slips down my back and grabs my ass, his hand possessive, and I bite on his tongue to keep my pathetically loud vocals down. The bed is creaking, sheets tangled, and as we move I feel like I’m a part of something bigger, something that’s not just me. My worn out lips press kisses to his sweaty neck, biting here and there, hoping everyone in the world will see the souvenirs of this. All proof on his skin, that I was here, that he isn’t complete without me. And right now, neither am I. He feels alive beneath me, his leaking cock brushing my stomach, our flushed chests touching, and I let myself fall deep, deep into it.

The sex is graceless and wanton. I press my nose to his neck, bite on his collarbone, close my eyes and keep up the rhythm of thrust, thrust, thrust, firm and hard into him. His hand moves to my lower back, trying to press me down, and he gasps a shuddered, “Oh god, god, _god_ –” when the head of my cock makes impact with the spot inside of him that tears him apart. And he’s still so tight, so fucking tight, and I can’t really even fathom how big my cock must feel for him. I force him open with every slide, and he moans like he can’t get enough of it.

“ _Ryan_. Ryan, fuck,” he groans, and I have to kiss him when he says my name like that, like a seal or proof that it’s me on his tongue and he can’t pretend that it’s not. He pulls on my hair, and he tastes me with his tongue, licking against the roof of my mouth. His hips move in a way that’s beyond sinful, and I reach between us to grab his swollen cock to see how much more I can get out of him. He groans helplessly, his muscles contracting around my cock. “Oh. Oh, god.”

“Jesus, Bren,” I gasp, my thumb tracing a wet trail of pre-come on the sensitive underside of his cock.

“Please. Please, I need to get off,” he groans. Puffs of hot air wash against my lips, and he pulls on my hair almost painfully. “Can’t stand how good you feel, how fucking good –” I push in fucking hard, and a moan breaks him off, his back arching. I wrap my fingers around the head of his cock, spreading the pre-come on him with a few lazy strokes before matching the movement with the rhythm of our hips.

I fall into it, the heat of it, the urgency, the way we’re too rough but don’t give a fuck, the fact that he’ll be sore and I’ll be bruised. My body feels like it’s covered in sweat but it doesn’t matter, is inconsequential, and he kisses me, wants me in him, above him, his cock pulsing in my fist as he swears against my mouth.

“Oh god,” he breathes out, out of control, and he reaches above him to clutch a headboard bar. The other remains on my shoulder, nails digging in, and his hips move fluidly. His muscles keep contracting around me, and he bites on his lower lip whenever I brutally hit his prostate, a muffled yet guttural groan sounding in the heated air around us. He chants, “Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh _fuck_ –”, and it’s all nonsense and he doesn’t seem to care.

“You still with me?” I ask, my voice shaking, and he nods, slurs, “Yes, yes, yes,” every time I thrust into him, his voice mixing with the sound of my hips slamming against his ass. I run my thumb over his slit, trying not to lose it when he’s so far gone, when he feels so fucking good. No one’s ever had to ask me if I’m still with them during sex, if I’m too out of it, no one except him, and now I remember why. What makes it worse is that it’s mutual – it makes it almost lethal.

He reaches up and kisses me, sucking on my lower lip, and then both of his arms grab onto my shoulders, fly into my hair, and he trembles and groans, masculine and low. I fuck him until the bed moves and the headboard bangs against the wall and he sounds like the groans are tearing his lungs apart. I kiss him again and again and again, and I missed him, fuck I missed him, and suddenly he comes to a still. He gasps against my lips, pupils expanding, and his entire body tenses up as he comes, as he falls apart beneath me. His muscles spasm around my cock, strangling my dick so hard that it’s not easy to fuck into it but I do because nothing’s ever felt as good, and my fingers feel wet and sticky as his cock pulsates in my fist, streaks of come erupting, and he’s so tight and he’s mine and he’s perfect, and I slip into it, groaning into his mouth as my hips jerk, fucking him through it, wanting to fuck him through it.

“Fuck,” I manage, my own voice foreign and choked up. “Fuck, _fuck_.” I push in again and come hard, feeling like something inside me is breaking, coming so hard that it hurts even as it feels like the most unbearable pleasure to ever wash over me.

Behind closed eyes, all I can see is him. All I feel is him beneath me, relaxing, shivering, radiating warmth. His chest moving as he breathes heavily. My scalp hurts from him pulling on my hair, my mouth is swollen and raw, but our mouths find each other and slide together slowly, anyway. Just to get a focal point in this mess.

His hands run down my back, caressing, and I breathe him in, moving to kiss the side of his face, letting him come down. Letting myself do the same. He’s still shivering beneath me, and I don’t pull out of him. Don’t want to just yet.

“Fuck,” he whispers, voice hoarse. He sounds wrecked. When I open my eyes, he’s looking at me, hair a mess, cheeks rosy, eyes wide and almost helpless. An open book, like I could see it all – his secrets and mistakes, all the little things that make up who he is. And he came back to me.

I smile a small, small smile into his cheek, trying to wrap my head around it. “You okay?”

His breaths steady slowly. “Yeah.” He doesn’t sound too sure, but he says it anyway. He sounds like he’s just gotten his brain fucked out and speaking is a little difficult.

“Fuck, you’re amazing.” I almost laugh, smiling wider against his skin. “God.” I inhale his scent.

I’m still holding his now almost flaccid cock, and his come has started drying onto my palm. I love every gritty detail, love the mess we’ve made, but he shifts slightly beneath me, and I let go, not wanting to crush him. I pull my cock out of him carefully, and he flinches, a small yet fucking sexy gasp escaping his lips when the crown slips out of him, his hole tightening and come slipping out. I place a hand on his chest, over his heart, feeling the fast thud, thud, thud as I sit up between his legs. He’s sweaty, sex-haired, flushed, come-stained, well-fucked and glowing, and my stomach drops.

You’re beautiful. You’re astounding. You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

I rub my face with one hand, trying to suppress a shit-eating grin or a worshipping gaze. “God, I could do with a cigarette,” I laugh, my fingers rubbing his knee just to keep touching. He stares at me like he still hasn’t quite caught up with me, and I grin slightly.

I get off the bed, messing my hair, feeling it wet from the roots, watching him close his legs, but that’s alright, twenty minutes before I’ll push them apart again. We’ve got catching up to do. A shit load of catching up to do. I open a drawer to get us a cigarette, but only find five empty packs. “Dammit,” I swear, pulling boxers on instead. “I’ve got some in the kitchen,” I tell him. My body feels more relaxed than it has in a long time, and the world has slowed down somehow, seems less chaotic. He’s risen to rest on his elbows, his cock lying against his lower stomach, and I smile, smile, smile, a euphoric buzz in my veins. “Be right back.”

It’s hard to tear my eyes away from him.

I find cigarettes in the kitchen, seeing the empty beer bottles from earlier still standing on the counter, the memories now gold-tinted, and I store them in some part of my brain where I can fish them out at will. And stupid, really, that I put boxers on, but it was habit. Useless, though. I’ll take them off, slide into bed with him, enjoy the much needed post-coital cigarette, and then fuck him until sunrise. Amazing plan.

I push the bedroom door back open just as Brendon’s pulling his pants back on. He freezes by the bed, looks up, hands on the undone fly. I stop where I am, ignoring the instant sensation of having been punched in the gut.

“What are you doing?” I ask. What the fuck does he think he’s doing?

He kicks back into motion and zips himself up. “What does it look like I’m doing?” I don’t respond, just stare. He glances at me, bangs hanging in front of his eyes. “I’m going.”

“Brendon. That’s not funny.” No reaction. He picks up his socks and stuffs them into his pockets hurriedly. I walk over in four long strides, grabbing his bare shoulders. His skin is still hot to the touch. “Brendon.” He avoids eye contact. “Brendon. _Bren_.”

He looks up, and there it is: guilt. Right there in his eyes. A tormented guilt and anger rooted in it, and he snaps, “We did it, okay? We fucked, so now I can- I can stop thinking about you, I can stop –”

“No,” I cut him off, capturing his lips though he turns his head away. “No stopping.” Never. It’s not an option.

“Ryan,” he says, sounding broken. I can fix it. I can, but that requires him not going. “I can’t do this to him.” His voice wavers. “Not to him.”

“But we’re not doing anything to anyone!” I argue angrily, and he laughs, desperate, close to a break down. “No, listen. _Listen_. What he doesn’t know, what _they_ don’t know, can’t hurt them.”

“But what I know –”

“You did what you wanted. We only did what we both wanted,” I say, cup the back of his head and kiss him. He responds, hands fumbling, not sure whether to take hold of me or not. I put everything into the kiss, everything, the magic powers needed to make him stay, and he kisses back like he desperately wants to hold on. “There’s nothing wrong with this,” I say against his lips, and that’s when he pulls himself free of my hold and heads out of the room. I try to breathe, but it’s hard. It’s hard without him. The sheets haven’t even cooled yet, we’ve barely recovered from our orgasms, and he’s already leaving.

When I march out of my bedroom, he’s by the dining table, shoes back on and shaking hands clumsily buttoning up his shirt.

“You think leaving is going to solve anything?” I ask him angrily, watching him cover up the bite and nail marks, the bruises and come stains. He pockets his tie, in a real hurry. “You think you can pretend this never happened? Because you can’t! Don’t think for a second that I’ll let you do that!”

“I made a mistake,” he says, lying to himself, and he grabs his coat from the back of the dining chair closest to him and throws it on before trying to get past me to the door.

I block his way, grabbing his arm and keeping him still. “Yeah. A mistake by not coming here sooner.”

He looks hurt but why? The sex? My words? Shane? He pulls himself free, and I don’t even know what’s going on anymore, why he is doing this when we both know where he belongs, why he is trying to sabotage this for us. It doesn’t make any sense as I follow him to the door, watching him button his jacket, and then he’s there, fingers curling around the door handle.

“Brendon!” I yell, not caring how desperate I sound. He stops, and I’m trembling. “You walk out that door, and you’ll regret it! You will always regret it! Because you can’t deny this, what we have. You leave now, and it will eat you up inside.” He’s not moving. He’s listening. “You’re not going to tell him. Stay or go, you will never tell him about what we did, and neither will I. It’s not wrong to go after what you want, Bren. Fuck, when was the last time you thought what you wanted and fucking went for it? Do you even remember? Because no matter what happens, this won’t change. Us. I’m under your skin, and if you go, you’ll lie there tonight, ridden with useless guilt and not because of what you did, but because you can’t fucking stop thinking about me. When you wake up, when you go to bed, when he fucking makes you come, you’ll be thinking about me. Or then – Then you can stay. You can be here, with me, and no one will ever have to know. But if you walk out that door, I swear you will regret it for the rest of your life.”

I take in a shuddery breath and watch the tension in his shoulders, watch him unblinkingly, waiting for his vanishing act where he goes and leaves me fucking broken again, and I don’t know how to recover from that this time. I don’t know if I ever did to begin with.

Excruciatingly slowly, his hand drops back to his side. He turns around slowly, too slowly, and then he leans against the door, shoulders slumped, looking small. He’s got a look in his eyes like I’m the worst fucker he’s ever come across, but then he laughs emptily, out of desperation, maybe.

“So,” he says quietly, voice testing the waters but still managing to make the iron hold around my heart loosen. He breathes in, he breathes out, and he smiles. “What do we do now?”

I cock my head to the side. Welcome him home.

 

_End of Vol.2 – I_


End file.
